The event was held in a field upon the side of the moor, and all sportsmen of the district were gathered together, with a few women, and as many children as could possibly get there. It was a great time for the small boys; better than a Sunday-school tea or chapel anniversary; no self-control was required of them at the shoot, they could let themselves go, and release every one of the seven little devils in them. Farmer Chegwidden was there, completely restored to health, though he had an ugly black scar on the side of his head. He was half drunk before proceedings commenced, because he said he could shoot better when in that condition, Pendoggat was there, silent and gloomy, but handling his gun as if he loved it. The old Master was there, tottering about with two sticks, beaming upon every one, and wishing the young men good-luck; and the landlord of the inn, who presided over the safe conveyance of the victims from his barn to the place of massacre, jumped here and there in a wild state of excitement, explaining the programme and issuing instructions to competitors. The constable was there, dropping fatness; and near him Pezzack, with grave and reverend aspect and new clothes, stood and made the thing respectable with his blessing. Two others were there who looked singularly out of place, and stood apart from the noisy crowd, both of them nervous and uncomfortable. They were Boodles and old Weevil. Close to them were crates stuffed full of pigeons, uttering from time to time little mournful notes, and bulging sacks filled with healthy rabbits. "It is so silly," said Boodles, rather petulantly. "You will only be ill. We had much better go away." "I must see it, darling--as much as I can bear. I am going to prepare a petition about these things, and I want to be fair. I must see for myself. It may not be so brutal as I believe it is." "Yes, it is, and worse. I know I shall be ill," said Boodles. "Go home, little girl. There is no reason why you should stay." "I'm not going to leave you," declared Boodles bravely. "Only do let's go further away from those poor things in the sacks. They keep on heaving so." "I must see it all," said the old man stubbornly. "Look the other way." "I can't. It fascinates me," she said. "Willum!" yelled the landlord. "Come along, my lad. Pigeons first. Dra' first blood, Willum." A young man stepped out, smiling in a watery fashion, handling his gun nervously. The landlord plunged his hand into a crate, caught a pigeon by the neck, and dragged it out. The trap was merely a basket with a string fastened to it, and it was placed scarcely a dozen yards from the shooter. "Kill 'en, Willum!" shouted the landlord as he pulled the string.