"
Upon consideration he added: "I suppose he has given up
the idea of shooting to-day."
"I think not, "she answered." The keeper was about this morning,
that is--and he doesn't often come unless they are to go
out with the guns. I suppose you are very fond of shooting."
"Well--I've done some--in my time," Thorpe replied, cautiously.
It did not seem necessary to explain that he had yet to fire
his first gun on English soil. "It's a good many years,"
he went on, "since I had the time and opportunity to do much
at it. I think the last shooting I did was alligators.
You hit 'em in the eye, you know. But what kind of
a hand I shall make of it with a shot-gun, I haven't
the least idea. Is the shooting round I here pretty good?"
"I don't think it's anything remarkable. Plowden says
my brother Balder kills all the birds off every season.
Balder's by way of being a crack-shot, you know.
There are some pheasants, though. We saw them flying
when we were out this morning."
Thorpe wondered if it would be possible to consult her
upon the question of apparel. Clearly, he ought to make
some difference in his garb, yet the mental vision
of him-self in those old Mexican clothes revealed itself
now as ridiculously impossible. He must have been out
of his mind to have conceived anything so preposterous
as rigging himself out, among these polished people,
like a cow-puncher down on his luck.
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