you are traveling to get country life, come to me and I will give you
plenty of it. Joe! Drat that boy, he's gone to sleep again. Help put in
the horses." The horses were put in and the driver mounted and the boy
clambered up by his side. The farewells were exchanged and the carriage
rolled off. As the Pickwickians turned around to take a last glimpse of
it the setting sun cast a red gold upon the faces of their entertainers,
and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his
bosom, and he slumbered again.

After some amusing difficulties, which we have not space to describe
here, Mr. Pickwick and his friends arrived safely at the country home of
Mr. Wardle. The time passed very pleasantly.

One day some of the men decided upon a shooting trip, and Mr. Winkle, to
maintain his reputation as a sport, did not admit that he knew nothing
about guns. Mr. Pickwick, early in the morning, seeing Mr. Wardle
carrying a gun, asked what they were going to do.

"Why, your friend and I are going out rook shooting. He's a very good
shot, isn't he?" said Mr. Wardle.

"I have heard him say he's a capital one," replied Mr. Pickwick, "but I
never saw him aim at anything."

"Well," said the host, "I wish Mr. Tupman would join us. Joe! Joe!" The
fat boy who, under the exciting influences of the morning, did not
appear to be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from
the house. "Go up and call Mr. Tupman, and tell him he will find us
waiting." At last the party started, Mr. Tupman having joined them. Some
boys, who were with them, discovered a tree with a nest in one of the
branches, and when all was ready Mr. Wardle was persuaded to shoot
first. The boys shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it, and a
half-a-dozen young rooks, in violent conversation, flew out to ask what
the matter was. Mr. Wardle leveled his gun and fired; down fell one and
off flew the others.

"Pick him up, Joe," said the old gentleman. There was a smile upon the
youth's face as he advanced, for an indistinct vision of rook pie
floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the bird.
It was a plump one.

"Now, Mr. Winkle," said the host, reloading his own gun, "fire away."
Mr. Winkle advanced and raised his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends
crouched involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of birds
which they felt quite certain would be caused by their friend's skill.
There was a solemn pause, a shout,