“Oh! Only a picture! I thought it was a bear at least!” cried Tom. But Bert calmly proceeded to get the view he wanted. He was perhaps more enthusiastic over camera work than the others, though they all liked to dabble in the pastime, and each one had some fine pictures to his credit. “Well, if you’re done making snapshots, let’s go on and do some real shooting,” proposed Jack. He and Tom each had a rifle, while Bert and George had shotguns, so they were equipped for any sort of game they were likely to meet. For an hour or more they tramped on through the snow-covered woods, taking care to note their direction by means of a compass, for they were on strange ground, and did not want to get lost on their first hunting trip. As they came out of a dense patch of scrubby woods, into a little semi-cleared place, a whirr of wings startled all of them. “There they go--partridges!” yelled Bert, bringing up his gun and firing quickly. “Missed!” he groaned a moment later as he saw the brace of plump birds whirr on without so much as a feather ruffled. “You don’t know how to shoot!” grunted Jack. “You’re not quick enough.” “Well, I’d like to see you shoot anything when it jumps up right from under your feet, and almost knocks you over,” was Bert’s defence of himself. “That’s right,” chimed in George. “I couldn’t get my gun ready, either, before they were out of sight.” “You’ve got to be always on the lookout,” said Tom. “Well, the first miss isn’t so bad. None of us is in proper shape yet. We’ll get there after a while.” A little disappointed at their first failure, the boys went on again, watching eagerly from side to side as they advanced. No more did Bert use his camera. He wanted to make good on a real shot. “Well, there’s game here, that’s certain,” said Tom. “If we can only get it!” Almost as he spoke there was a whirr at his very feet. He started back, and half raised his rifle, not thinking, for the moment, that it was not a shotgun. Then he cried: “Bert! George! Quick, wing ’em!” George was quicker than his companion. Up to his shoulder went his weapon and the woods echoed to the shot that followed. “You got him!” cried Bert, as he saw a bird flutter to the snow. Bert himself fired at the second partridge, and had the satisfaction of knocking off a few feathers, but that was all. But George, who had not thought to fire his second barrel, ran forward and picked up the bird he had bagged. It was a plump partridge. “That will make part of our meal to-morrow,” he said, proudly, as he put it in the game bag Tom carried. “Say, we’ve struck a good spot all right!” exclaimed Jack. “It’s up to us now, Tom, to do something.” “That’s what it is,” agreed his chum. But if they expected to have a succession and continuation of that good luck they were disappointed, for they tramped on for about three miles more without seeing anything.