The heap of dead birds, some of them still fluttering in their last gasps, now grew larger at the side of the referee, and the negro boys were perhaps less careful to wring the necks of the birds as they gathered them.  Occasionally a bird was tossed in such a way as to leave a fluttering wing.  Wild pigeons decoy readily to any such sign, and I noticed that several birds, rising in such position that they headed toward the score, were incomers, and very fast.  My seventieth bird was such, and it came straight and swift as an arrow, swooping down and curving about with the great speed of these birds when fairly on the wing.  I covered it, lost sight of it, then suddenly realized that I must fire quickly if I was to reach it before it crossed the score.  It was so close when I fired that the charge cut away the quills of a wing.  It fell, just inside the line, with its head up, and my gatherer pounced upon it like a cat.  The decision of the referee was prompt, but even so, it was almost lost in the sudden stir and murmur which arose behind us.

Some one came pushing through the crowd, evidently having sprung down from one of the carriages.  I turned to see a young girl, clad in white lawn, a thin silver-gray veil drawn tight under her chin, who now pushed forward through the men, and ran up to the black boy who stood with the bird in his hand, hanging by one wing.  She caught it from him, and held it against her breast, where its blood drabbled her gown and hands.  I remember I saw one drop of blood at its beak, and remember how glad I was that the bird was in effect dead, so that a trying scene would soon be ended.

“Stop this at once!” cried the girl, raising an imperative hand.  “Aren’t you ashamed, all of you?  Look, look at this!” She held out the dying bird in her hand.  “Judge Reeves,” she cried, “what are you doing there?”

Our decisive referee grew suddenly abashed.  “Ah—­ah, my dear young lady—­my very dear young lady,” he began.

“Captain Stevenson,” exclaimed the girl, whirling suddenly on my second, “stop this at once!  I’m ashamed of you.”

“Now, now, my dear Miss Ellen,” began Stevenson, “can’t you be a good fellow and run back home?  We’re off the reservation, and really—­this, you see, is a judge of the Supreme Court!  We’re doing nothing unlawful.”  He motioned toward Judge Reeves, who looked suddenly uncomfortable.

Major Williams added his counsel.  “It is a little sport between Captain Orme and Mr. Cowles, Miss Ellen.”

“Sport, great sport, isn’t it?” cried the girl, holding out her drabbled hands.  “Look there”—­she pointed toward the pile of dead birds—­“hundreds of these killed, for money, for sport.  It isn’t sport.  You had all these birds once, you owned them.”

And there she hit a large truth, with a woman’s guess, although none of us had paused to consider it so before.

“The law, Miss Ellen,” began Judge Reeves, clearing his throat, “allows the reducing to possession of animals feroe naturoe, that is to say, of wild nature, and ancient custom sanctions it.”