“All right,” answered Henry, “I can run to that”; and they both laughed, while Emma, who was standing by, dressed in a pretty grey tweed costume, looked pleased to see her father show so much interest in anything. Ten minutes passed, and a shrill whistle, blown far away at the end of the cover, announced that the beaters were about to start. Henry cocked his gun and waited, till presently a brace of pheasants were seen coming towards him with the wind in their tails, and at a tremendous height, one bird being some fifty yards in front of the other. “Over you, Graves,” said Mr. Levinger. Henry waited till the first bird was at the proper angle, and fired both barrels, aiming at least three yards ahead of him; but without producing the slightest effect upon the old cock, which sailed away serenely. Snatching his second gun with an exclamation, he repeated the performance at the hen that followed, and with a similar lack of result. “There go four cartridges, anyway,” said Mr. Levinger. “It isn’t fair to count them,” answered Henry, laughing; “those birds were clean out of shot.” “Yes, out of _your_ shot, Graves. You were yards behind them. You mustn’t be content with aiming ahead here, especially in this wind; if you don’t swing as well, you’ll scarcely kill a bird. Look out: here comes another. There! you’ve missed him again. Swing, man, swing!” By this time Henry was fairly nettled, for, chancing to look round, he saw that Emma was laughing at his discomfiture. The next time a bird came over him he took his host’s advice and “swung” with a vengeance, and down it fell far behind him, dead as a stone. “That’s better, Graves; you caught him in the head.” Now the fun became fast and furious, and Emma, watching Henry’s face as he fired away with as much earnestness and energy as though the fate of the British Empire depended upon each shot, thought that he was quite handsome. Handsome he was not, nor ever would be; but it is true that, like most Englishmen, he looked his best in his rough shooting clothes and when intent upon his sport. Five minutes more, and the firing, which had been continuous all along the line, began to slacken, and then died away altogether, Henry distinguishing himself by killing the last two birds that flew over with a brilliant right and left. Still, when the slain came to be counted it was found that he had lost his bet by one cartridge. “Don’t be depressed,” said Levinger, as he pocketed the half-crown; “the other fellows have done much worse. I don’t believe that young Jones has touched a feather. The fact is that a great many of the birds you fired at were quite impossible. I never remember seeing them fly so high and fast before. But then this wood has not been shot in half a gale of wind for many years. And now I must say good-bye to those gentlemen and be off, or I shall get a chill. You’ll see my daughter home, won’t you?”