“How am I to carry it?” said the wretched Winkle.
“Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,” replied Mr. Pickwick.
“It’s so unsportsmanlike,” reasoned Winkle.
“I don’t care whether it’s unsportsmanlike or not,” replied Mr. Pickwick; “I am not going to be shot in a wheelbarrow, for the sake of appearances, to please anybody.”
“I know the gentleman’ll put that ’ere charge into somebody afore he’s done,” growled the long man.
“Well, well—I don’t mind,” said poor Winkle, turning his gunstock uppermost—“there.”
“Anythin’ for a quiet life,” said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.
“Stop!” said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards farther.
“What now?” said Wardle.
“That gun of Tupman’s is not safe: I know it isn’t,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Eh? What! not safe?” said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.
“Not as you are carrying it,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I am very sorry to make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as Winkle does his.”
“I think you had better, sir,” said the long gamekeeper, “or you’re quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.”
Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral.
The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily a single pace, stopped too.
“What’s the matter with the dogs’ legs?” whispered Mr. Winkle. “How queer they’re standing.”
“Hush, can’t you?” replied Wardle softly. “Don’t you see, they’re making a point?”
“Making a point!” said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals were calling special attention to. “Making a point! What are they pointing at?”
“Keep your eyes open,” said Wardle, not heeding the question in the excitement of the moment. “Now then.”
There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns—the smoke swept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.
“Where are they!” said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement, turning round and round in all directions. “Where are they? Tell me when to fire. Where are they—where are they?”
“Where are they!” said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. “Why, here they are.”
“No, no; I mean the others,” said the bewildered Winkle.
“Far enough off, by this time,” replied Wardle, coolly reloading his gun.
“We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,” said the long gamekeeper. “If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he’ll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.”
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Mr. Weller.
“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower’s confusion and embarrassment.
“Sir.”
“Don’t laugh.”
“Certainly not, Sir.” So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the wheelbarrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.
“Bravo, old fellow!” said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; “you fired that time, at all events.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. “I let it off.”
“Well done. You’ll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, ain’t it?”
“Yes, it’s very easy,” said Mr. Tupman. “How it hurts one’s shoulder, though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small firearms kicked so.”
“Ah,” said the old gentleman, smiling, “you’ll get used to it in time. Now then—all ready—all right with the barrow there?”
“All right, Sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Come along, then.”
“Hold hard, Sir,” said Sam, raising the barrow.
“Aye, aye,” replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need be.
“Keep that barrow back now,” cried Wardle, when it had been hoisted over a stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more.
“All right, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, pausing.
“Now, Winkle,” said the old gentleman, “follow me softly, and don’t be too late this time.”
“Never fear,” said Mr. Winkle. “Are they pointing?”
“No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.” On they crept, and very quietly they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over the boy’s head, exactly in the very spot where the tall man’s brain would have been, had he been there instead.
“Why, what on earth did you do that for?” said old Wardle, as the birds flew unharmed away.
“I never saw such a gun in my life,” replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at the lock, as if that would do any good. “It goes off of its own accord. It will do it.”
“Will do it!” echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner. “I wish it would kill something of its own accord.”
“It’ll do that afore long, Sir,” observed the tall man, in a low, prophetic voice.
“What do you mean by that observation, Sir?” inquired Mr. Winkle, angrily.
“Never mind, Sir, never mind,” replied the long gamekeeper; “I’ve no family myself, sir; and this here boy’s mother will get something handsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he’s killed on his land. Load again, Sir, load again.”
“Take away his gun,” cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken at the long man’s dark insinuations. “Take away his gun, do you hear, somebody?”
Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, after darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and proceeded onwards with the rest.
We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state, that Mr. Tupman’s mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence and deliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means detracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman, on all matters
