There really isn't any shooting in this country
to be compared to that, don't you 'now!"
Willis Paulding drawled this in his affected style, and then swung the
handsome English Greener hammerless to his shoulder and squinted down
the barrels as if he fancied he heard the whirring of a moor cock's
wings and felt the thrill of the sportsman tingling through his veins.
"What's the matter with partridge and woodcock shooting in New England?
Or quail shooting in the West and South? Or duck shooting on the
Southwest coast? Or prairie-chicken and grouse shooting in the far West
and Rocky Mountains?" demanded Merriwell, who had arrived on the grounds
of the gun club with Bart Hodge and was taking his gun out of its case.
Paulding flushed.
"If you had ever shot grouse across the big pond, you 'now, you wouldn't
ask such a question, Merriwell!"
"I have shot grouse on the other side of the big pond, and it is fine
sport, true enough. But there is just as fine shooting to be had in
America. You make me tired. You want to act like an Englishman,
Paulding, but it is an insult to the English, for your imitation is
really disgraceful. A true Englishman is very much a man!"
"And Paulding is a mere thing!" snapped Hodge.
"He isn't worth noticing, don't you 'now!" sneered Paulding, moving away
with the members of the Chickering set.
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