A Party of Guns is walking to the first beat of the day. 
    Time, say about 10.20 A.M.

Young Sportsman (who has a pipe in his mouth, to Second Sportsman, similarly adorned).  I always think the after-breakfast smoke is about the best of the day.  Somehow, tobacco tastes sweeter then than at any other time of the day.

Second Sp. (puffing vigorously).  Yes, it’s first class; but I hold with smoke at most times of the day, after breakfast, after lunch, after dinner, and in between.

Young Sp. Well, I don’t know.  If I try to smoke when I’m actually shooting, I generally find I’ve got my pipe in the gun side of my mouth.  I heard of a man the other day who knocked out three of his best teeth through bringing up his gun sharp, and forgetting he’d got a pipe in his mouth.  Poor beggar! he was very plucky about it, I believe; but it made no end of a difference to his pronunciation till he got a new lot shoved in.  Just like that old Johnnie in the play—­Overland something or other—­who lost his false set of teeth on a desert island, and couldn’t make any of the other Johnnies understand him.

Second Sp. I’ve never had any difficulty with my smoking.  I always make a habit of carrying my smokes in the left side of my mouth.

Young Sp. Oh, but you’re pretty certain to get the smoke or the ashes or something, blown slap into your eyes just as you’re going to loose off.  No. (With decision.) I’m off my smoke when the popping begins.

Second Sp. Don’t be too hard on yourself, my boy.  They tell me there are precious few birds in the old planting this year, so you can treat yourself to a cigarette when you get there.  It never pays to trample on one’s longing for tobacco too much.

Young Sp. No, by Jove.  Old REGGIE MORRIS told me of a fellow he met somewhere this year, who goes regularly into training for shooting.  Never touches baccy from August to February, and limits his drink to three pints a day, and no whiskeys and sodas.  And what’s more, he won’t let any of his guests smoke when he’s got a shoot on, He’s got “No Smoking” posted up in big letters in every room in the house.  REGGIE said it was awful.  He had to lock his bedroom door, shove the chest-of-drawers against it, and smoke with his head stuck right up the chimney.  He got a peck of soot, one night, right on the top of his nut.  Now I call that simple rot.

Second Sp. Ah, I’ve heard of that man.  Never met him though, I’m thankful to say.  Let me see what’s the beggar’s name?  JACKSON or BARRETT, or POLLARD, or something like that.  He’s got a big place somewhere in Suffolk, or Yorkshire, or somewhere about there.

Young Sp. Yes, that’s the chap, I fancy.