Shortly after this the gale worked round to the north and settled there， blowing with ever-increasing violence. The pheasants， however， still flew forward in the shelter of the trees， for they were ****** for the covert on the hill， where they had been bred. But when they got into the open and felt the full force of the wind， quite four out of six of them turned and came back at a most fearful pace， many so high as to be almost out of shot.
For the next three-quarters of an hour or more--as I think I have explained， the beat was a very long one--I had such covert shooting as I suppose I shall never see again. High above those shrieking trees， or over the lake to my left， flashed the wind-driven pheasants in an endless procession. Oddly enough， I found that this wild work suited me， for as time went on and the pheasants grew more and more impossible， I shot better and better. One after another down they came far behind me with a crash in the brushwood or a splash in the lake， till the guns grew almost too hot to hold. There were so many of them that I discovered I could pick my shots； also that nine out of ten were caught by the wind and curved at a certain angle， and that the time to fire was just before they took the curve. The excitement was great and the sport splendid， as anyone will testify who has shot December pheasants breaking back over the covert and in a tearing gale. Van Koop also was doing very well， but the guns in front got comparatively little shooting. They were forced to stand there， poor fellows， and watch our performance from afar.
As the thing drew towards an end the birds came thicker and thicker， and I shot， as I have said， better and better. This may be judged from the fact that， notwithstanding their height and tremendous pace， Ikilled my last thirty pheasants with thirty-five cartridges. The final bird of all， a splendid cock， appeared by himself out of nothingness when we thought that all was done. I think it must have been flushed from the covert on the hill， or been turned back just as it reached it by the resistless strength of the storm. Over it came， so high above us that it looked quite small in the dark snow-scud.
"Too far--no use！" said Lord Ragnall， as I lifted the gun.
Still， I fired， holding I know not how much in front， and lo！ that pheasant died in mid air， falling with a mighty splash near the bank of the lake， but at a great distance behind us. The shot was so remarkable that everyone who saw it， including most of the beaters， who had passed us by now， uttered a cheer， and the red-waistcoated old Jenkins， who had stopped by us， remarked： "Well， bust me if that bain't a master one！"Scroope made me angry by slapping me so hard upon the back that it hurt， and nearly caused me to let off the other barrel of the gun.
Charles seemed to become one great grin， and Lord Ragnall， with a brief congratulatory "Never enjoyed a shoot so much in my life，"called to the men who were posted behind us to pick up all the dead pheasants， being careful to keep mine apart from those of Sir Junius Fortescue.
"You should have a hundred and forty-three at this stand，" he said， "allowing for every possible runner. Charles and I make the same total."I remarked that I did not think there were many runners， as the No. 3shot had served me very well， and getting into the boat was rowed to the other side， where I received more congratulations. Then， as all further shooting was out of the question because of the weather， we walked back to the castle to tea.
As I emptied my cup Lord Ragnall， who had left the room， returned and asked us to come and see the game. So we went， to find it laid out in endless lines upon the snow-powdered grass in the quadrangle of the castle， arranged in one main and two separate lots.
"Those are yours and Sir Junius's，" said Scroope. "I wonder which of you has won. I'll put a sovereign on you， old fellow.""Then you're a donkey for your pains，" I answered， feeling vexed， for at that moment I had forgotten all about the bet.
I do not remember how many pheasants were killed altogether， but the total was much smaller than had been hoped for， because of the gale.
"Jenkins，" said Lord Ragnall presently to Red Waistcoat， "how many have you to the credit of Sir Junius Fortescue？""Two hundred and seventy-seven， my lord， twelve hares， two woodcocks， and three pigeons.""And how many to that of Mr. Quatermain？" adding： "I must remind you both， gentlemen， that the birds have been picked as carefully as possible and kept unmixed， and therefore that the figures given by Jenkins must be considered as final.""Quite so，" I answered， but Van Koop said nothing. Then， while we all waited anxiously， came the amazing answer：
"Two hundred and seventy-seven pheasants， my lord， same number as those of Sir Junius， Bart.， fifteen hares， three pigeons， four partridges， one duck， and a beak--I mean a woodcock.""Then it seems you have won your ā5， Mr. Quatermain， upon which Icongratulate you，" said Lord Ragnall.
