Chapter 9

"I'm dem'd if I can ever hit 'em."

It is a most extraordinary thing, 'pon my veracity: I go out as regularly as the year, and yet I never bring down an individual bird.

I have one of the best Mantons going with such a bore! and then I use the best shot--but not being the best shot in the world myself--I suppose is the identical reason why I never hit any thing. I think it must arise from a natural defect in my sight; for when I suppose a covey as near--as my miser of an uncle--they are probably as distant--as my ninety-ninth cousin!

Such a rum go!--the other day I had a troop of fellows at my heels, laughing like mad; and what do you think?--when I doffed my shooting jacket, I found some wag had stuck the top of a printed placard on my back, with the horrid words, "A young Gentleman missing!"

It was only last week, a whole flight of sparrows rose at my very feet--I fired--bang!--no go!--but I heard a squall; and elevating my glass, lo! I beheld a cottage within a few yards of my muzzle--the vulgar peasant took the trouble to leap his fence, and inform me I had broken his windows--of course I was compelled to pay him for his panes.

To be sure he did rather indicate a disposition to take away my gun--which I certainly should never have relinquished without a struggle--and so I forked out the dibs, in order to keep the piece! I'm quite positive, however, that the vagabond over-charged me, and I kicked, as was quite natural, you know, under such circumstances!

I really have an imperfect notion of disposing of my shooting-tackle--but I'm such an unfortunate devil, that I really believe when I post 'em up for sale--my gun will not go off!--dem me!