"Not I," said Voucher; "the sport is capital--if one can manage to hit
the beggars--"

"Oh, everybody misses in snap-shooting," observed Ferrall; "that is,
everybody except Stephen Siward with his unholy left barrel. Crack!
and," turning to Alderdene, "it's like taking money from you, Blinky--
which reminds me that we've time for a little Preference before
dressing."

His squinting lordship declined and took an easier position in his
chair, extending a pair of little bandy legs draped in baggy tweed
knickerbockers and heather-spats. Mortimer, industriously distending his
skin with whiskey, reached for the decanter. The aromatic perfume of the
spirits aroused Siward, and he instinctively nodded his desire to a
servant.

"This salt air keeps one thirsty," he observed to Ferrall; then
something in his host's expression arrested the glass at his lips. He
had already been using the decanter a good deal; except Mortimer, nobody
was doing that sort of thing as freely as he.

He set his glass on the table thoughtfully; a tinge of colour had crept
into his lean checks.

Ferrall, too, suddenly uncomfortable, stood up saying something about
dressing; several men arose a trifle stiffly, feeling in every joint the
result of the first day's shooting after all those idle months. Mortimer
got up with an unfeigned groan; Siward followed, leaving his glass
untouched.