“I don’t know—I know nothing about their fate.” “What the eyes do not swallow, the heart does not throw up! There are other places, but—have you been to Monte Carlo?” “No, and I should never think of going there.” “Oh, well,” he answered, “it’s a great place; but there’s just one little thing about it, and that’s in the matter of those ‘blue rocks.’ You’ll agree, I suppose, that one can’t complain of people amusing themselves in any way they like so long as they hurt no one but themselves——” I caught him up: “I don’t agree at all.” He smiled: “Yours is perhaps the English point of view. Still——” “It’s more important that they shouldn’t hurt themselves than that they shouldn’t hurt pigeons, if that’s what you’re driving at,” I said. “There wouldn’t appear to you, I suppose, to be any connection in the matter?” “I tell you,” I repeated, “I know nothing about pigeon-shooting!” He stared very straight before him. “Imagine,” he said, “a blue sea, and a half-circle of grass, with a low wall. Imagine on that grass five traps, from which lead paths—like the rays of a star—to the central point on the base of that half-circle. And imagine on that central point a gentleman with a double-barrelled gun, another man, and a retriever dog. And imagine one of those traps opening, and a little dazed gray bird (not a bit like that fellow you saw just now) emerge and fly perhaps six yards. And imagine the sound of the gun and the little bird dipping in its flight, but struggling on. And imagine the sound of the gun again and the little bird falling to the ground and wriggling on along it. And imagine the retriever dog run forward and pick it up and walk slowly back with it, still quivering, in his mouth. Or imagine, once in a way, the little bird drop dead as a stone at the first sound. Or imagine again that it winces at the shots, yet carries on over the boundary, to fall into the sea. Or—but this very seldom—imagine it wing up and out, unhurt, to the first freedom it has ever known. My friend, the joke is this: To the man who lets no little bird away to freedom comes much honour, and a nice round sum of money! Do you still think there is no connection?” “Well,” I said, “it doesn’t sound too sportsman-like. And yet, I suppose, looking at it quite broadly, it does minister in a sort of way to the law of the survival of the fittest.” “In which species—man or pigeon?” “The sportsman is necessary to the expansion of Empire. Besides, you must remember that one does not expect high standards at Monte Carlo.” He looked at me. “Do you never read any sporting paper?” he asked. “No.” “Did you ever hunt the carted stag?” “No, I never did.” “Well, you’ve been coursing, anyway.” “Certainly; but there’s no comparing that with pigeon-shooting.”