a tremendous and awe-inspiring piece of ordnance that weighed nine or ten pounds.
"It's a cylinder bore. Bill loads her with five drachms and an ounce and a half! When he turns her loose he kills everything within an angle of thirty degrees, big and little, birds, animals, insects. It's like dynamiting a pool, I say."
"You go to hell!" was all Bill's comment.
Each several times tried the feel of Kenneth's little Scott. They liked the way it handled; but they much doubted its shooting quality. It might be all right of course for very close range; but long shots now—or old birds?
Kenneth grew eloquent in defence of the sixteen. He had done considerable wing shooting in the East both at the Bob White and the ruffed grouse. They listened politely.
"You have to reload, don't you?" Corbell changed the subject. "How many shells have you?"
"Fifty."
"That is very few. I think I'll put in a little twelve I have for you."
"I ought to get all the birds I want with fifty shells," protested Kenneth. "I'm really not such a bad shot as all that."
Again they listened politely. They were all old hands at the sport, and had witnessed the downfall of much eastern pride. Corbell, as host, did his duty by letting fall a hint.
"The western Colinus, or quail," he stated with a burlesque of the didactic, "is as compared with the eastern Colinus, or quail, a swift and elusive proposition that requires especial study."
"Such being the case, suppose we go and study him," suggested Moore.
Breakfast over they picked up their guns and started forth. Full daylight had come, and the first rays of the sun were gilding the sagebrush hills on the left side of the valley. Toward these the hunters proceeded on foot.
From that moment until lunch time Kenneth acquired much valuable experience. He learned that hunting the valley quail was indeed a specialist's job. Arrived at the sagebrush slope Corbell strung his command out at such intervals as to sweep the hill. They began to move forward abreast.
