Slide ensconced in a little glass
cupboard, writing an article for the next day's copy.
"I suppose you're very busy," said Phineas, inserting himself with
some difficulty on to a little stool in the corner of the cupboard.
"Not so particular but what I'm glad to see you. You shoot, don't
you?"
"Shoot!" said Phineas. It could not be possible that Mr. Slide was
intending, after this abrupt fashion, to propose a duel with pistols.
"Grouse and pheasants, and them sort of things?" asked Mr. Slide.
"Oh, ah; I understand. Yes, I shoot sometimes."
"Is it the 12th or 20th for grouse in Scotland?"
"The 12th," said Phineas. "What makes you ask that just now?"
"I'm doing a letter about it,--advising men not to shoot too many of
the young birds, and showing that they'll have none next year if they
do. I had a fellow here just now who knew all about it, and he put
down a lot; but I forgot to make him tell me the day of beginning.
What's a good place to date from?"
Phineas suggested Callender or Stirling.
"Stirling's too much of a town, isn't it? Callender sounds better for
game, I think."
So the letter which was to save the young grouse was dated from
Callender; and Mr. Quintus Slide having written the word, threw down
his pen, came off his stool, and rushed at once at his subject.
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