s was a rule that he never broke, for his
patience had a fixed limit. On this occasion, however, John arrived
before it was reached, and, jumping off his pony, cocked his gun and
marched slowly up, full of happy expectation. On drew the dog, his eye
cold and fixed, saliva dropping from his mouth, and his head, on
which was frozen an extraordinary expression of instinctive ferocity,
outstretched to its utmost limit.

Pontac was under the mimosa thorn now and up to his belly in the warm
red grass. Where could the birds be? _Whirr!_ and a great feathered
shell seemed to have burst at his very feet. What a covey! twelve brace
if there was a bird, and they had all been lying beak to beak in a space
no bigger than a cart wheel. Up went John's gun and off too, a little
sooner than it should have done.

"Missed him clean! Now then for the left barrel." Same result. We will
draw a veil over the profanity that ensued. A minute later and it was
all over, and John and Pontac were regarding each other with mutual
contempt and disgust.

"It was all you, you brute," said John to Pontac. "I thought you were
going to run in, and you hurried me."

"Ugh!" said Pontac to John, or at least he looked it. "Ugh! you
disgusting bad shot. What is the good of pointing for you? It's enough
to make a dog sick."

The covey--or rather the collection of old birds, for this kind of
partridge sometimes "packs" just before the breeding season--had
scattered all about the place. It was not long before Pontac found some
of them, and this time John got one bird--a beautiful great partridge he
was too, with yellow legs--and missed another. Again Pontac pointed, and
a brace rose. Bang! down goes one; bang with the other barrel. Caught
him, by Jove, just as he topped the stone. Hullo! Pontac is still on the
point. Slip in two more cartridges. Oh, a leash this time! bang! bang!
and down come a brace of them--two brace of partridges without moving a
yard.

Life has joys for all men, but, I verily believe, it has no joy to
compare to that of the moderate shot and earnest sportsman when he
has just killed half a dozen driven partridges without a miss, or ten
rocketing pheasants with eleven cartridges, or, better still, a couple
of woodcock right and left. Sweet to the politician are the cheers
that announce the triumph of his cause and of himself; sweet to the
desponding writer is the unexpected public recognition by reviewers of
talents with which previou