Part 5

I must confess that I was rather startled when he announced his intention of shooting in his ulster. The idea of dragging this long-tailed appendage across ditches and over bogs appeared _outré_, especially as the pockets bulged very considerably, as though they were loaded with woollen wraps; but I was silent in the presence of one who had sought his quarry in the jungle, and shoved my old-fashioned idea back into the fusty lumber-room of my thoughts. Billy Doyle awaited us with the dogs at the stable gate. These faithful animals no sooner perceived me than they set up an unlimited howling of delight; but instead of bounding forward to meet me, as was their wont, they suddenly stopped, as if struck by an invisible hand, and commenced to set at Simpson.

This extraordinary conduct of these dogs--there are no better dogs in Ireland--incensed Billy to fever heat.

"Arrah, what the puck are yez settin' at? Are yez mad or dhrunk? Whoop! gelang ow a that, Feltram! Hush! away wud ye, Birdlime!"

"Take them away; take them away!" cried Simpson, very excitedly. "I don't want them; I never shoot with dogs. Remove them, my man."

Billy caught Feltram, but Birdlime eluded his grasp; and having released Feltram and captured Birdlime, the former remained at a dead set, whilst the latter struggled with his captor, as though the lives of both depended on the issue.

"May the divvle admire me," panted Billy, "but this bangs Banagher. Is there a herrin' stirrin', or anything for to set the dogs this way?--it bates me intirely."

I naturally turned to my guest, who looked as puzzled as I did myself.

"I have it!" he cried; "it's the blood of the sperm-whale that's causing this."

"Arrah, how the blazes cud the blood av all the whales in Ireland make thim shupayriour animals set as if the birds were foreninst them?" demanded Billy, his arms akimbo.

"I will explain," said Simpson. "Last autumn I was up whaling off the coast of Greenland. We struck a fine fish; and after playing him for three-and-twenty hours, we got him aboard. Just as we were taking the harpoon out, he made one despairing effort and spurted blood; a few drops fell upon this coat, just here," pointing to the inside portion of his right-hand cuff, "and I pledge you my veracity no dog can withstand it. They invariably point; and I assure you, Smithe, you could get up a drag hunt by simply walking across country in this identical coat, built by John Henry Smalpage."

This startling and sensational explanation satisfied me. Not so my _factotum_, who gave vent in an undertone to such exclamations as "_Naboclish! Wirra, wirra!_ What does he take us for? Whales, begorra!"

The riddance of the dogs was a grand _coup_ for me. In the event of having no sport the failure could be easily accounted for, and I should come off with flying colours.

"I make it a point" observed Simpson, "to shoot as little with dogs as possible. I like to set my own game, shoot it, and bag it; nor do I care to be followed by troublesome and often impertinent self-opinionated game-keepers" (Billy was at this moment engaged in incarcerating Feltram and Birdlime). "These fellows are always spoilt, and never know their position."

I was nettled at this.

"If you refer to----"

"My dear Smithe, I allude to my friend Lord Mulligatawny's fellows, got up in Lincoln green and impossible gaiters, who insist upon loading for you, and all that sort of thing. You know Mulligatawny, of course?"

I rather apologised for not having the honour.

"Then you shall, Smithe. I'll bring you together when you come to town. Leave that to me; a nice little party: Mulligatawny, Sir Percy Whiffler, Colonel Owlfinch of the 1st Life Guards--they're at Beggar's Bush now, I suppose--Belgum, yourself, and myself."

This was very considerate and flattering; and I heartily hoped that by some fluke or other we might be enabled to make a bag.

When we arrived upon the shooting-ground, I observed that it was time to load; and calling up Billy Doyle with the guns, I proceeded to carry my precept into practice. My weapon was an old-fashioned muzzle-loader, one of Truelock & Harris's; and as I went through the process of loading, I could see that Mr Simpson was regarding my movements with a careful and critical eye.

"I know that you swells despise this sort of thing," I remarked; "but I have dropped a good many birds with this gun at pretty long ranges, and have wiped the eyes of many a breech-loading party."

"I--I like that sort of gun," said Simpson. "I'd be glad if you'd take this," presenting his, with both barrels covering me.

"Good heavens, don't do that!" I cried, shoving the muzzle aside.

"What--what--" he cried, whirling round like a teetotum--"what have I done?"

"Nothing as yet; but I hate to have the muzzle of a gun turned towards me since the day I saw poor cousin Jack's brains blown out."

"What am I to do?" exclaimed Simpson. "I'll do anything."

"It's all right," I replied; "you won't mind my old-world stupidity."

My guest's gun was a central-fire breech-loader of Rigby's newest type, which he commenced to prepare for action in what seemed to me to be a very bungling sort of way. He dropped it twice, and in releasing the barrels, brought them into very violent collision with his head, which caused the waters of anguish to roll silently down his cheeks and on to his pointed moustache. If I had not been aware of his manifold experiences in the shooting line, I could have set him down as a man who had never handled a gun in his life; but knowing his powers and prowess, I ascribed his awkwardness to simple carelessness, a carelessness in all probability due to the smallness of the game of which he was now in pursuit. I therefore refrained from taking any notice, and from making any observation until he deliberately proceeded to thrust a patent cartridge into the _muzzle_ of the barrel of his central-fire.

"Hold hard, Mr Simpson; you are surely only jesting."

"Jesting! How do you mean?"

"Why, using that cartridge in the way you are doing."

"What other way should I use it?"

"May I again remind you that I am utterly averse to facetiousness where firearms are concerned, and----"

"My dear Smithe, I meant nothing, I assure you. I pledge you my word of honour. Here, load it yourself;" and he handed me the gun.

"There'll be a job for the coroner afore sunset," growled Billy.

"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Simpson, rather savagely.

"Mane! There's widdys and lone orphans enough in the counthry, sir--that's what I mane," and Billy started in advance with the air of a man who had to do or die.

Mr Simpson was silent for some time, during which he found himself perpetually involved in his gun, which appeared to give him the uttermost uneasiness. First, he held it at arm's length as if it was a bow; then he placed it under his arm, and held on to it with the tenacity of an octopus; after a little he shifted it again, sloping it on his shoulder, ever and anon glancing towards the barrels to ascertain their exact position. He would pause, place the butt against the ground, and survey the surrounding prospect with the scrutinising gaze of a cavalry patrol.

"Hush!" he suddenly exclaimed. "We lost something that time; I heard a bird."

"Nothin', barrin' a crow," observed Billy.

"A plover, sir; it was the cry of a plover," evasively retorted the other.

"Holy Vargin! do ye hear this? A pluvver! Divvle resave the pluvver ever was seen in the barony!"

"Silence, Doyle!" I shouted, finding that my retainer's observations were becoming personal and unpleasant.

"Troth, we'll all be silent enough by-an'-by."

We had been walking for about half an hour, when Mr Simpson suggested that it might be advisable to separate, he taking one direction, I taking the other, but both moving in parallel lines. Having joyfully assented to this proposition, as the careless manner in which he handled his gun was fraught with the direst consequences, I moved into an adjacent bog, leaving my guest to blaze away at what I considered a safe distance. I took Billy with me, both for company and for counsel, as my guest's assumed ignorance of the fundamental principles of shooting had somewhat puzzled me.

"It's a quare bisniss intirely, Masther Jim. He knows no more how to howld a gun nor you do to howld a baby, more betoken ye've two av the finest childre--God be good to them!--in Europe. I don't like for to say he's coddin' us, wud his tigers an' elephants an' combusticles, but, be me song, it luks very like it. I'd like for to see him shootin', that wud putt an ind to the question."

At this moment, bang! bang! went the two barrels of my guest's gun. Billy and I ran to the hedge, and peeping through, perceived Simpson running very fast towards a clump of furze, shouting and gesticulating violently. I jumped across the fence, and was rapidly approaching him, when he waved me back.

"Stop! don't come near me! I'm into them. There are quantities of snipe here."

"Arrah, what is he talkin' about at all at all?" panted Billy. "Snipes! Cock him up wud snipes! There ain't a snipe----"

Here Simpson, who had been groping amongst the furze, held up to our astonished gaze _two brace of snipe_.

Billy Doyle seemed completely dumbfounded. "That bangs anything I ever heerd tell of. Man nor boy ever seen a snipe in that field afore. Begorra, he's handy enough wud the gun, after all."

I was very much pleased to find that our excursion had borne fruit, and that my vaunted preserves were not utterly barren.

"That's a good beginning, Simpson," I cried. "Go ahead; you'll get plenty of birds by-and-by."

"I'll shoot at nothing but snipe," he replied. "Here you, Billy, come here and load for me."

"Let's look at the birds, av ye plaze, sir," said Billy, who began to entertain a feeling akin to respect for a man who could bring down his two brace at a shot. "I'll be bound they're fat an' cosy, arter the hoighth av fine feedin' on this slob."

"They're in my bag. By-and-by," replied Simpson curtly. "Now, my man, follow your master, and leave me to myself;" and my guest strode in the opposite direction.

Bang! bang!

"Be the mortial, he's at thim agin. This is shupayriour," cried my retainer, hurrying towards the place whence the report proceeded.

Simpson again held up _two brace of snipe_, and again plunged them into his bag; nor would he gratify the justifiable longings of our gamekeeper by as much as a peep at them.

"This is capital sport. Why, this place is swarming with snipe," cried my guest, whilst his gun was being reloaded. "Depend upon it, it's a mistake to take dogs. The birds smell them. I'll try that bit of bog now."

"Ye'll have to mind yer futtin'," observed Billy. "It's crukked an' crass enough in some spots; I'd betther be wid ye."

"Certainly not," said my guest. "I always shoot alone."

"Och, folly yer own wish, sir; only mind yer futtin'."

Mr Simpson disappeared into the hollow in which the bog was situated, and, as before, bang! bang! we heard the report of both barrels.

"Be jabers, I'm bet intirely. Thim snipes must have been dhruv from the say, an' have come here unknownst to any wan. Ay, bawl away! Whisht! be the hokey, he's into the bog!"

A dismal wailing, accompanied by cries for help, arose from out the bog, where we found poor Simpson almost up to his chin, and endeavouring to support himself by his elbows.

"Ugh! ugh! lift me out, for heaven's sake! My new clothes--this coat that I never put on before" (his whaling garment)--"why did I come to this infernal hole. Ugh! ugh!"

We dragged him up, leaving his patent boots and stockings behind him. Billy bore him on his back to the house, where he was stripped and arrayed in evening costume.

From the pockets of his ulster, which it was found necessary to turn out for drying purposes, Mr William Doyle extracted no less than _six brace of snipe_. Unfortunately for Mr Simpson the bill was attached to the leg of one of the birds. They had been purchased at a poulterer's in Dublin.

* * * * *

Mr Simpson did not remain to dine or to sleep. He pleaded a business engagement which he had completely overlooked, and left by the 4.50 train.

"Av all th' imposthors! and his tigers an' elephants no less, an' bears an' algebras! An' goin' for to cod me into believin' there was snipes growin' in a clover-field, an' thin never to gi' me a shillin'! Pah! the naygur!" and Billy Doyle's resentment recognised no limits.

It is scarcely necessary to observe that I was _not_ invited to meet Lord Mulligatawny, Sir Percy Whiffler, and Colonel Owlfinch of Her Majesty's Guards, and that my wife holds Simpson over me whenever I hint at the probability of a visit to the metropolis.

PODGER'S POINTER

I am not a sporting man--I never possessed either a dog or a gun--I never fired a shot in my life, and the points of a canine quadruped are as unknown to me as those of the sea-serpent. The 12th of August is a mystery, and the 1st of September a sealed book. I have been regarded with well-merited contempt at the club by asking for grouse in the month of June, and for woodcock in September. I think it is just as well to mention these matters, lest it should be supposed that I desire to sail under false colours. I am acquainted with several men who shoot, and also with some who have shooting to give away. The former very frequently invite me to join their parties at the moors, turnip-fields, and woods; the latter press their shooting on me, especially when I decline on the grounds of disinclination and incapacity.

"I wish I had your chances, Brown," howls poor little Binks, who can bring down any known bird at any given distance. "You're always getting invitations because you _can't_ shoot; and I cannot get one because I _can_. It's too bad, by George!--it's too bad!"

One lovely morning in the month of September I was sauntering along the shady side of Sackville Street, Dublin, when a gentleman, encased in a coat of a resounding pattern, all over pockets, and whose knickerbockers seemed especially constructed to meet the requirements of the coat, suddenly burst upon, and clutched me.

"The very man I wanted," he exclaimed. "I've been hunting you the way O'Mulligan's pup hunted the fourpenny bit through the bonfire."

"What can I do for you, Mr Podgers?" I asked.

"I want a day's shooting at O'Rooney's of Ballybawn," responded Podgers.

Now, I was not intimate with Mr O'Rooney. We had met at the club; but as he was a smoking man, and as I, after a prolonged and terrific combat with a very mild cigar (what must the strong ones be!), had bidden a long farewell to the Indian weed, it is scarcely necessary to mention that, although Mr O'Rooney and myself were very frequently beneath the same roof, we very seldom encountered one another, save in a casual sort of way.

"I assure you, Mr Podgers, that I----"

"Pshaw! that's all gammon," he burst in anticipatingly. "You can do it if you like. Sure we won't kill _all_ the game. And I have the loveliest dog that ever stood in front of a bird. I want to get a chance of showing him off. He'll do you credit."

I was anxious to oblige Podgers. He had stood by me in a police-court case once upon a time, and proved an _alibi_ such as must have met the approval even of the immortal Mr Weller himself; so I resolved upon soliciting the required permission, and informed Podgers that I would acquaint him with the result of my application.

"That's a decent fellow. Come back to my house with me now, and I'll give you a drop of John Jameson that will make your hair curl."

Declining to have my hair curled through the instrumentality of Mr Jameson's unrivalled whisky, I wended my way towards the club, and, as luck would have it, encountered O'Rooney lounging on the steps enjoying a cigar.

After the conventional greetings, I said, "By the way, you have some capital partridge shooting at Ballybawn."

"Oh, pretty good," was the reply, in that self-satisfied, complacent tone in which a crack billiard-player refers to the spot-stroke, or a rifleman to his score when competing for the Queen's Prize.

"I'm no shot myself--I never fired a gun in my life; but there's a particular friend of mine who is most anxious to have _one_ day's shooting at Ballybawn. Do you think you could manage to let him have it?"

I emphasised the word "one" in the most impressive way.

"I would give one or two days, Mr Brown, with the greatest pleasure; but the fact is, I have lent my dogs to Sir Patrick O'Houlahan."

"Oh, as to that, my friend has a splendid dog--a most remarkable dog. I hear it's a treat to see him in front of a bird."

I stood manfully by Podgers' exact words, adding some slight embellishments, in order to increase O'Rooney's interest in the animal.

"In that case, there can be no difficulty, Mr Brown. I leave for Ballybawn on Saturday--will you kindly name Monday, as I would, in addition to the pleasure of receiving you and your friend, like to witness the performance of this remarkable dog; and I _must_ be in Galway on Wednesday."

Having settled the preliminaries so satisfactorily, I wrote the following note to Podgers:--

"DEAR PODGERS,

"It's all right. Mr O'Rooney has named Monday. _Be sure to bring the dog, as his dogs are away._ Come and breakfast with me at eight o'clock, as the train starts from the King's Bridge Terminus at nine o'clock.--Yours,

"BENJAMIN B. BROWN.

"P.S.--_I praised the dog sky high._ O'R. is most anxious to see him in front of the birds."

I received a gushing note in reply, stating that he would breakfast with me, and bring the dog, adding, "It's some time since he was shot over; but that makes no difference, as he is the finest dog in Leinster."

Knowing Podgers to be a very punctual sort of person, I had ordered breakfast for eight o'clock sharp, and consequently felt somewhat surprised when the timepiece chimed the quarter past.

I consulted his letter--day, date, and time were recapitulated in the most businesslike way. Some accident might have detained him. Perhaps he preferred meeting me at the station. I had arrived at this conclusion, and had just made the first incision into a round of buttered toast, when a very loud, jerky, uneven knocking thundered at the hall door, and the bell was tugged with a violence that threatened to drag the handle off.

I rushed to the window, and perceived Podgers clinging frantically to the area railings with one hand, whilst with the other he held a chain, attached to which, at the utmost attainable distance, stood, or stretched, in an attitude as if baying the moon, the fore legs planted out in front, the hind legs almost _clutching_ the granite step, the eyes betraying an inflexible determination not to budge one inch from the spot--a bony animal, of a dingy white colour, with dark patches over the eyes, imparting a mournfully dissipated appearance--the redoubtable dog which was to afford us a treat "in front of the birds."

"Hollo, Podgers!" I cried, "you're late!"

"This cursed animal," gasped Podgers; "he got away from me in Merrion Square after a cat. The cat climbed up the Prince Consort statue. This brute, somehow or other got up after her. She was on the head, and he was too high for me to reach him, when I got the hook of this umbrella and----"

At this moment the hall-door opened, and the dog being animated with an energetic desire to explore the interior of the house, suddenly relaxed the pull upon the chain, which utterly unexpected movement sent Podgers flying into the hall as though he had been discharged from a catapult. My maid-of-all-work, an elderly lady with proclivities in the direction of "sperrits," happened to stand right in the centre of the doorway when Podgers commenced his unpremeditated bound. He cannoned against her, causing her to reel and stagger against the wall, and to clutch despairingly at the nearest available object to save herself from falling. That object happened to be the curly hair of my acrobatic friend, to which her five fingers clung as the suckers of the octopus cling to the crab. By the aid of this substantial support she had just righted herself, when the dog, finding himself comparatively free, made one desperate plunge into the hall, entwining his chain round the limbs of the lady in one dexterous whirl which levelled her, with a very heavy thud, on the body of the prostrate Podgers. Now, whether she was animated with the idea that she was in bodily danger from both master and dog, and that it behoved her to defend herself to the uttermost extent of her power, I cannot possibly determine; but she commenced a most vigorous onslaught upon both, bestowing a kick and a cuff alternately with an impartiality that spoke volumes in favour of her ideas upon the principles of even--and indeed I may add, heavy-handed justice.

I arrived upon the scene in time to raise the prostrate form of my friend, and to administer such words of consolation and sympathy as, under the circumstances, were his due. His left eye betrayed symptoms of incipient inflammation, and his mouth gave evidence of the violence with which Miss Bridget Byrne (the lady in the case) had brought her somewhat heavy knuckle-dusters into contact with it.

"Bringin' wild bastes into a gintleman's dacent house, as if it was a barn, that's manners!" she muttered. "Av I can get a clout at that dog, I'll lave him as bare as a plucked thrush!"

At this instant a violent crash of crockery-ware was heard in the regions of the kitchen.

"Holy Vargin! but the baste is on the dhresser! _I'll_ dhress the villian!" and seizing upon a very stout ash stick which stood in the hall, she darted rapidly in the direction from whence the dire sounds were proceeding.

"Hold hard, woman!" cried Podgers. "He's a very valuable animal. I'll make good any damage. Use your authority, Brown," he added, appealing to me. "She's a terrible person this; she'd stop at nothing."

Ere I could interpose, a violent skirmishing took place, in which such exclamations as "Take that, ye divvle! Ye'll brake me chaney, will ye? There's chaney for ye!" followed by very audible whacks, which, if they had fulfilled their intended mission, would very speedily have sent the dog to the happy hunting-grounds of his race. One well-directed blow, however, made its mark, and was succeeded by a whoop of triumph from Miss Byrne and a yell of anguish from her vanquished foe.

"Gelang, ye fireside spaniel! Ye live on the neighbours. How dar' ye come in here? Ye'll sup sorrow. I'll give a couple more av I can get at ye."

Podgers rushed to the rescue, and, after a very protracted and exciting chase, during which a well-directed blow, intended by Bridget for the sole use and benefit of the dog, had alighted on the head of its master, succeeded in effecting a capture. This, too, was done under embarrassing circumstances; for the dog had sought sanctuary within the sacred precincts of Miss Byrne's sleeping apartment, beneath the very couch upon which it was the habit of that lady to repose her virgin form after the labours of the day; and her indignation knew no bounds when Podgers, utterly unmindful of the surroundings, hauled forth the dog.

"There's no dacency in man nor baste. They're all wan, sorra a lie in it!"

At this crisis Podgers must have developed his pecuniary resources, for her tone changed with marvellous rapidity, and her anger was melted into a well-feigned contrition for having used her fists so freely.

"Poor baste! shure it's frightened he is. I wudn't hurt a fly, let alone an illigant tarrier like that. Thry a bit o' beefsteak in regard o' yer eye, sir. Ye must have hot it agin somethin' hard; it will be as black as a beetle in tin minits."