bowing. "It makes me talk."

"Time we were moving, Jack," said the first traveller. The second,
assenting to this as an abstract proposition, expressed, however, a
determination to finish his pipe first.

I heard you saying something about shooting, continued the old man, and
that reminds me of some shooting we 'ad here once in Claybury. We've
always 'ad a lot o' game in these parts, and if it wasn't for a low,
poaching fellow named Bob Pretty--Claybury's disgrace I call 'im--we'd
'ave a lot more.

It happened in this way. Squire Rockett was going abroad to foreign
parts for a year, and he let the Hall to a gentleman from London named
Sutton. A real gentleman 'e was, open-'anded and free, and just about
October he 'ad a lot of 'is friends come down from London to 'elp 'im
kill the pheasants.

The first day they frightened more than they killed, but they enjoyed
theirselves all right until one gentleman, who 'adn't shot a single thing
all day, shot pore Bill Chambers wot was beating with about a dozen more.

Bill got most of it in the shoulder and a little in the cheek, but the
row he see fit to make you'd ha' thought he'd been killed. He laid on
the ground groaning with 'is eyes shut, and everybody thought 'e was
dying till Henery Walker stooped down and asked 'im whether 'e was hurt.

It took four men to carry Bill 'ome, and he was that particular you
wouldn't believe. They 'ad to talk in whispers, and when Peter Gubbins
forgot 'imself and began to whistle he asked him where his 'art was.