en noble gobblers stepping
cautiously toward my stand. Their glossy breasts glittered with
coppery lustre in the straggling sunbeams as, with drooping wings and
expanded tails, they advanced, looking fearfully about and uttering
their low alarm-notes, "Quit! quit! quit!" Three more steps will make
a certain shot, and--out rang Jack's nasal clarion, loud and clear as
the _morte_ at a fox-chase. I looked round in horror, and there
stood my hunter complacently eying me and flourishing his white silk
handkerchief, while his gun leaned against a tree ten paces distant:
"Expect I'd better go back to my stand, eh? Are those dogs barking at
a deer?"

I jumped to my feet for a snap-shot at the old gobbler which flew over
me, making a clear miss. Bang! bang! went two more guns; a woodcock
whistled up from the bog and two swamp-rabbits dashed into the
brier. The dogs came out, shaking the water from their coats, and the
spattered drivers rode through the creek. There was not a feather to
show, and of course everybody was "down" on Jack, but with an air of
deep injury he put it off on me with the question, "Why didn't you
tell me the turkeys were coming? How can a fellow help having a cold?"

We reached the club-house just in time to take our seats as dinner was
served, and were in capital condition to enjoy the rich mutton, the
fat turkey, the juicy home-cured ham and the rare old madeira which
graced the board. This last was a specialty with the gentlemen of
those days, and probably no cellars in the world could boast choicer
vintage than the "Newton & Gordon" and "Old Leacock" which cheered the
table of that "hunting-club." There were stronger liquors, too, though
these were chiefly used as appetizers before dinner. The moderate use
of brandy was universal, but the drunkenness which blots these days of
prohibitory laws was comparatively rare. Few ever left the club-house
"disguised" by liquor except the young men, who then, as now and
always, would occasionally indulge in a "frolic." With the clearing of
the board came the regular and volunteer toasts, and then an hour of
"crop-talk" and "horse-talk" and hunting-stories over the wine and
cigars. With the departure of the older members came the inevitable
quarter-race, with its accompaniment of riding feats which would have
done credit to a Don Cossack. The equestrian performance was commenced
by Kit Gillam (who now dismounts and leads over every little
ditch) forcing his activ