erywhere.

_Bad Shot_. Yes--they didn't come my way much. But I don't get much
practice at this kind of thing--and a man's no good without practice.

_Y.S._ That was a deuced long shot, all the same, that you polished
off in the last drive. When I saw him coming at about a hundred miles
an hour, I thanked my stars he wasn't my bird. What a thump he fell!

_B.S._ Oh, he was a fairly easy shot, though a bit far off. I daresay
I should do well enough if I only got more shooting. I'm not shooting
with my own gun, though. It's one of my brother's, and it's rather
short in the stock for me.

That starts you comfortably with the Bad Shot. You soothe his ruffled
vanity, and give him a better appetite for lunch.

Now, besides the Good Shot, and the Bad Shot--the two extremes, as
it were, of the line of shooters--you might subdivide your sportsmen
further into--

(1.) _The Jovial Shot._ This party is on excellent terms with himself
and with everybody else. Generally he shoots fairly well, but there
is a rollicking air about him, which disarms criticism, even when
he shoots badly. He knows everybody, and talks of most people by
nick-names. His sporting anecdotes may be counted upon for, at any
rate, a _succes d'estime_. "I never laughed so much in my life," he
begins, "as I did last Tuesday. There were four of us--Old SANDY,
BUTCHER BILL, DICK WHORTLEBURY, and myself. SANDY was driving us back
from Dillwater Hall--you know, old PUFFINGTON's place--where we'd been
dining. Devilish dark night it was, and SANDY's as blind as a bat.
When we got to the Devil's Punchbowl I knew there'd be some warm
games, 'cos the horse started off full tilt, and, before you could say
knife, over we went. I pitched, head first, into DICK's stomach, and
SANDY and BILL went howling down like a right and left of rabbits.
Lord, I laughed till the tears ran down my face. No bones broken, but
the old BUTCHER's face got a shade the worst of it with a thorn-bush
on the slope. Cart smashed into matchwood, of course."

(2.) _The Dressy Shot._ Wonderful in the boot, stocking, and gaiter
department. Very tasteful, too, in the matter of caps and ties. May
be flattered by an inquiry as to where he got his gaiters, and if they
are an idea of his own. Sometimes bursts out into a belt covered with
silver clasps. Fancy waistcoats a speciality. His smoking-suit, in
the evening, is a dream of gorgeous rainbows. Is sometimes a very fair
shot. Generally wears gloves,