‘Here they are,’ said Mr. Pickwick; and, as he spoke, the forms of Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat boy, not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call, had with peculiar sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any mistake, called them all. ‘Come along,’ shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; ‘a keen hand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as this.’ Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with an expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with a foreboding of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume. It might have been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery. The old gentleman nodded; and two ragged boys who had been marshalled to the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing up two of the trees. ‘What are these lads for?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather alarmed; for he was not quite certain but that the distress of the agricultural interest, about which he had often heard a great deal, might have compelled the small boys attached to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous subsistence by making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen. ‘Only to start the game,’ replied Mr. Wardle, laughing. ‘To what?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick. ‘Why, in plain English, to frighten the rooks.’ ‘Oh, is that all?’ ‘You are satisfied?’ ‘Quite.’ ‘Very well. Shall I begin?’ ‘If you please,’ said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite. ‘Stand aside, then. Now for it.’ The boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen young rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter was. The old gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, and off flew the others. ‘Take him up, Joe,’ said the old gentleman. There was a smile upon the youth’s face as he advanced. Indistinct visions of rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the bird--it was a plump one. ‘Now, Mr. Winkle,’ said the host, reloading his own gun. ‘Fire away.’ Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks, which they felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. There was a solemn pause--a shout--a flapping of wings--a faint click. ‘Hollo!’ said the old gentleman. ‘Won’t it go?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick. ‘Missed fire,’ said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale--probably from disappointment. ‘Odd,’ said the old gentleman, taking the gun. ‘Never knew one of them miss fire before. Why, I don’t see anything of the cap.’ Bless my soul!’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘I declare I forgot the cap!’