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You're well out av that fancy-firin' gang, Jock. Stay here. 'Bin firin' at the bloomin' wind in the bloomin' tree-tops, said Ortheris with a chuckle. 'I'll show you some firin' later on. They wallowed in the pine-needles, and the sun warmed them where they lay. The Mixed Pickles ceased firing, and returned to camp, and left the wood to a few scared apes.
"That's the spishil trustability av a marksman. Train him to hit a fly wid a stiddy rest at seven hunder, an' he loose on anythin' he sees or hears up to th' mile. You're well out av that fancy-firin' gang, Jock. Stay here." "Bin firin' at the bloomin' wind in the bloomin' treetops," said Ortheris, with a chuckle. "I'll show you some firin' later on."
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