There was a sharp whirring-noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns;—the smoke swept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.
"Where are they?" said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement, turning round and round in all directions. "Where are they? Tell me when to fire. Where are they—where are they?"
"Where are they?" said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs had deposited at his feet. "Why, here they are."
"No, no; I mean the others," said the bewildered Winkle.
"Far enough off, by this time," replied Wardle, coolly reloading his gun.
"We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes," said the long gamekeeper. "If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he'll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise."
"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Mr. Weller.
"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower's confusion and embarrassment.
"Sir."
"Don't laugh."
"Certainly not, sir." So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the wheelbarrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.
"Bravo, old fellow!" said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; "you fired that time, at all events."
"Oh yes," replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. "I let it off."
"Well done. You'll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, ain't it?"
"Yes, it's very easy," said Mr. Tupman. "How it hurts
