Willum fired and missed. The bird flew straight at him, and with the second shot he broke its wing. The pigeon fell on the grass, fluttering helplessly, and Willum walked up to it with a solemn grin, gave it a kick, then flung it aside to die at its leisure. The small boys pounced upon it, and assisted its departure from the world. "Little devils," murmured Boodles, beginning to bite her handkerchief. "I think we are all devils here," said old Weevil. "This field is full of them. It is the field-day of the Brute, the worship of the Brute, the deification of the Brute." The shoot proceeded, and the men began to get warmed up. Not a single pigeon escaped, because those that got away from the field with the loss of only a few feathers were bound to fall victims to the men who had posted themselves all round with the idea of profiting by the competitors' bad shots. The only man who was perfectly composed was Pendoggat. He shot at the pigeons, and killed them, as if he had been performing a religious duty. Chegwidden, on the other hand, shouted all the time and fired like a madman. The little boys were kept hard at work torturing the maimed birds to death, with much joyous and innocent laughter. "How be ye, Master? Purty fine shooting, I reckon," cried an old crony, hobbling up with a holiday air. "Butiful," said Master. "Us be too old vor't, I reckon." "Us bain't too old to enjoy it," said the old crony, "Sure 'nuff, man. Us bain't too old to enjoy it. 'Tis a brave sight to see 'em shoot." Then there was a pause. The string had been pulled, the basket had tumbled aside, but the pigeon would not stir. Possibly it had been maimed in the crate, or by the rough hand which had dragged it out. Everybody shouted wildly, waving arms and hats, but the bird did nothing except peck at the grass to get a little food into its hungry body. The landlord ran up and kicked it. The pigeon merely fell over, then hopped a little way feebly, but still refusing to fly, so the landlord kicked it again, shouting: "He be contrairy. There be no doing nought wi' 'en." "Tread on 'en, landlord," shouted a voice. "What be I to du?" asked the man whose turn it was to kill. "Shoot 'en on the ground. Shoot 'en, man! Don't let 'en get away. Kill 'en, man!" screamed the landlord. The competitor grinned contentedly, and at a distance of half-a-dozen paces blandly riddled the creature with pellets. This was the funniest thing which had happened yet, and the crowd could not stop laughing for a long time. "Now the rabbits! Fetch out two or dree," shouted the landlord. "Kill 'en quick, lads!" The worthy soul was anxious to have the massacre over, and start the real business of the day at the bar.