NEW YORK. HERBERT VANLENNERT. CHAPTER I. A PLEASANT September sunshine with no pretence of brilliancy was pouring down upon a stubble-field, across which there trudged two sportsmen each of some twenty-three years of age; and on the left of the line, a keeper. The three proceeded in that silent stolid manner which sport exacts, at any rate in England. Presently a whirr of wings broke on the still air, and a small covey of partridges rose into view. Two reports rang out almost simultaneously, a third, and a fourth. For a moment the whole covey flew on as if untouched; the next, one fluttered and sank to the ground. At a word from the keeper, Becky, the retriever bitch, bounded forward. But the bird had dropped close to a bank of furze bushes, the border of the field upon the left hand, and the outwork of a fir plantation which shut off all the view upon that side and descended down the slope of the hill. The other four birds sailed in level flight over the stone wall at the end of the field, seemed for a moment to hang suspended against the pale blue sky, and then sank out of sight behind the wall. Becky no doubt knew as well as anyone that the wounded bird was lost, and had no serious intention of pricking her nose in the gorse. But she knew or thought she knew that a certain show of zeal was expected of her; and so, with short suppressed barks, she began to career up and down before the bank of furze, over a continually wider and wider course. The two young sportsmen, on their side, walked straight on to the opposite gate, followed by the keeper. "Oh, come back, you brute!" cried one of them, Bertie Vanlennert. "Don't go playing the fool like that." "This is sickening," said Charles Orcher, his companion, as he leant his gun against the gate. "We shan't do any more good. I should think we may as well have lunch now." 8 And |