antics. For was it not DUBSON who told me, only a week ago, that he
had shot three partridges stone dead with one shot, and in measuring
the distance, had found it to be 100 yards less two inches? Candidly,
I do not believe him; but naturally enough I was not going to be
outdone, and I promptly returned on him with my well-known anecdote
about the shot which _ricocheted_ from a driven bird in front of me
and pierced my host's youngest brother--a plump, short-coated Eton
boy, who was for some reason standing with his back to me ten yards in
my rear--in a part of his person sacred as a rule _plagoso Orbilio_.
The shrieks of the stricken youth, I told DUBSON, still sounded
horribly in my ears. It took the country doctor an hour to extract
the pellets--an operation which the boy endured, with great fortitude,
merely observing that he hoped his rowing would not be spoiled for
good, as he should bar awfully having to turn himself into a dry-bob.
This story, with all its harrowing details, did I duly hammer into the
open-mouthed DUBSON, who merely remarked that "it was a rum go, but
you can never tell where a _ricochet_ will go," and was beginning upon
me with a brand-new _ricochet_ anecdote of his own, when I hurriedly
departed.

Wherefore, my gay young shooters, you who week by week suck wisdom and
conversational ability from these columns, it is borne in upon me that
for your benefit I must treat of the Smoking-room in its connection
with shooting-parties. Thus, perhaps, you may learn not so much what
you ought to say, as what you ought not to say, and your discretion
shall be the admiration of a whole country-side. "The Smoking-room:
with which is incorporated 'Anecdotes.'" What a rollicking, cheerful,
after-dinner sound there is about it. SHABRACK might say it was
like the title of a cheap weekly, which as a matter of fact, it does
resemble. But what of that? Next week we will begin upon it in good