Ian Hay

“ McRobbie, comfortably disposed in a deep leather armchair in the smoking-room of Invermutchkin House, was cleaning a gun and contentedly emitting through his nose what sounded like a bag pipe lament. He was a patriarchal old gentleman with a long white beard, wearing the plain kilt, homespun stockings, and tweed jacket of the Highland game-keeper. ”

“ That resourceful maiden responded at once.
“It’s a pity the moor has turned out such a disappointment,” she said.
“Disappointment?” Mr. Smithson, who had been proudly gazing over his sporting property, whirled round to face its two detractors. As he turned his back, a large covey of grouse rose from the heather not two hundred yards from the house, and skimmed away towards the horizon.
“Disappointment?” repeated Mr. Smithson. “Do you mean to say there are no birds?”
“Very few,” replied Hilda.
“Practically none,” corroborated Angus, as the last bird dropped from sight. ”

“ He had been a good husband, and was an indulgent father, but he was insular to the bone. Like nine tenths of his class, he was incapable of grasping the point of view or habit of mind of people outside his own immediate walk of life. ”

“ We don’t want to be discovered.”
McRobbie removed himself and his apparatus, chuckling softly. He had hardly departed when the new shooting-boots of Hilda's parent were heard descending the stairs, and Mr. Smithson entered the room, carrying gun and cartridge-bag.
“Now,” he announced joyfully, “daddy's ready to go a-hunting! All I want is ammunition. I see some one has left the cartridge magazine out for me: that’s very thoughtful. I’ll slip a couple into my gun, and fill up this bag.” He opened the magazine and pulled out a handful of gleaming brass cartridges. ”

“ Aren't they my property?”
“Yes; but they are not suitable for walking up birds. They’re for driven grouse, you know.”
“I should like to use them,” said Mr. Smithson wistfully. “They look smart.”
“But you will never be able to save the empty cases, walking all over the moor,” said Angus; “and they are valuable. If you were going to stand in a butt, it would be different.”
“Oh, very well,” grumbled Smithson. “I suppose we must all economize these days. I’ll take some of the other kind.” He plunged his hand into the compartment containing the ordinary pegamoid cartridges. ”

“ Father must be blooded.”
“Blooded? What do you mean?”
“He must draw blood. He must shoot somebody.”
“Who?”
“Who? McRobbie, of course.”
“Pless me!” exclaimed an indignant voice behind them. McRobbie had returned from the kitchen just in time to hear his own sentence pronounced.
Angus turned to Hilda.
“Miss Smithson,” he said, “I think you had better keep out of this.”
Recognizing the wisdom of this suggestion, Hilda remained in the sunlit veranda while the two conspirators retired to the shady seclusion of the smoking-room. She had no desire to be regarded by Mr. McRobbie as a confederate. ... ”

“ And Elspeth”—frustrating Miss McRobbie in an attempt to retreat under the lee of her parent–“wait a minute.”
The door closed, and Hilda sat down upon the arm of the chair recently vacated by her retainer.
“The cook, mem,” announced Elspeth rapidly, “was asking me just now what would you and the shentleman like to your dinners.”
“Thank you,” said Hilda: “I have just seen the cook. I fancy she will be too busy to-day cleaning up the kitchen to have much time for cooking. Now, to get back to the bedrooms; when you sweep a bedroom floor, where do you sweep the dust? Into a corner?” ”

“ McRobbie was saying as she entered, “and fire whenever he fired until we had a few birds shot.”
“Yes, and then get in front of him—right in front! That’ll do the business, I fancy,” said Angus, who was picking the cardboard wads out of the end of a pegamoid cartridge. “Come and sit down, Hilda.”
“What are you two doing?” asked Miss Smithson suspiciously.
“This is a Peace Conference. We are making the world safe for Democracy—reducing armaments, in fact.” Angus emptied a little stream of No. ”