And then followed the prettiest little bit of shooting that I ever saw.
The bird to the right was flying low, not ten yards from the line of
a hedgerow, and Quatermain took him first because he would become
invisible the soonest of any. Indeed, nobody who had not his hawk's eyes
could have seen to shoot at all. But he saw the bird well enough to kill
it dead as a stone. Then turning sharply, he pulled on the second bird
at about forty-five yards, and over he went. By this time the third
woodcock was nearly over him, and flying very high, straight down the
wind, a hundred feet up or more, I should say. I saw him glance at it as
he opened his gun, threw out the right cartridge and slipped in another,
turning round as he did so. By this time the cock was nearly fifty yards
away from him, and travelling like a flash. Lifting his gun he fired
after it, and, wonderful as the shot was, killed it dead. A tearing gust
of wind caught the dead bird, and blew it away like a leaf torn from an
oak, so that it fell a hundred and thirty yards off or more.
"I say, Quatermain," I said to him when the beaters were up, "do you
often do this sort of thing?"
"Well," he answered, with a dry smile, "the last time I had to load
three shots as quickly as that was at rather larger game. It was at
elephants. I killed them all three as dead as I killed those woodcocks;
but it very nearly went the other way, I can tell you; I mean that they
very nearly killed me.
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