part of an oak tree, and, after that, I scooted. Things were gettin'
just a shade too warm, by gad! A reg'lar hail-storm, that's what it
was. No, thank you, thinks I; not for this party--I'm off to cover. So
that's all _I_ know about it. Thanks, TOMMY--do you mind handin' round
that beer-jug?

_First Sportsman_ (_rallying him_). Just think of that. And we're all
of us taxed to keep a chap like that in comfort. Why you're _paid_
to be shot at--that's what you're _there_ for, you and your thin red
line, and all that. By Jupiter! we don't get our money's worth out
of you if you're going to cut and run before a poor, weak, harmless
woodcock.

[_Military Sportsman is heavily chaffed._

_Military Sportsman_. Oh, it's all very well for you Johnnies to gas
like that--but, by Gad, you didn't seem over-anxious to stand fire
yourselves. Why your teeth are chattering still, BINKS.

_Binks_. Ah, but I'm only a poor civilian.

_Military Sportsman_. Well, I cut and ran as a civilian. See? Did
anyone shoot the bloomin' bird, after all?

_The Host_. _Shoot_ him? I should think not. The last I saw of him he
was sailing off quite comfortable, cocking snooks at the whole lot.
Have another go of pie, JOHNNY?

So that is the Great Woodcock Saga, the absolute accuracy of which
every sportsman is bound to recognise. And the great truth that