l tint,
sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything
bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colour had yet faded
from the die.

Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three
Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr.
Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver,
pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall,
raw-boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each
bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of
pointers.

'I say,' whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps,
'they don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to fill those bags,
do they?'

'Fill them!' exclaimed old Wardle. 'Bless you, yes! You shall fill
one, and I the other; and when we've done with them, the pockets of our
shooting-jackets will hold as much more.'

Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this
observation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remained
in the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, they stood a
considerable chance of catching colds in their heads.

'Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,' said Wardle, caressing
the dogs. 'Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?'

The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some
surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his
coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr.
Tupman, who was holding his as if he was afraid of it--as there is no
earthly reason to doubt he really was.

'My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,'
said Wardle, noticing the look. 'Live and learn, you know. They'll be
good shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle's pardon, though;
he has had some practice.'

Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of
the compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun,
in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must
inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot.

'You mustn't handle your piece in that 'ere way, when you come to have
the charge in it, Sir,' said the tall gamekeeper gruffly; 'or I'm damned
if you won't make cold meat of some on us.'

Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered his position, and in so
doing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart cont