In A Small, Pretty, Out-Of-The-World Village In The West Of England I Made The Acquaintance Of The Curate, A Boyish Young Fellow Not Long From Oxford, Who Was Devoted To Sport And A Great Killer.

He was not satisfied with cricket and football in their seasons and golf and lawn tennis - he would even descend to croquet when there was nothing else - and boxing and fencing, and angling in the neighbouring streams, but he had to shoot something every day as well.

And it was noticed by the villagers that the shooting fury was always strongest on him on Mondays. They said it was a reaction; that after the restraint of Sunday with its three services, especially the last when he was permitted to pour out his wild curatical eloquence, the need of doing something violent and savage was most powerful; that he had, so to say, to wash out the Sunday taste with blood.

One August, on one of these Mondays, he was dodging along a hedge-side with his gun trying to get a shot at some bird, when he unfortunately thrust his foot into a populous wasps' nest, and the infuriated wasps issued in a cloud and inflicted many stings on his head and face and neck and hands, and on other parts of his anatomy where they could thrust their little needles through his clothes.

This mishap was the talk of the village. "Never mind," they said cheerfully - they were all very cheerful over it - "he's a good sports- man, and like all of that kind, hard as nails, and he'll soon be all right, making a joke of it."

The result "proved the rogues, they lied," that he was not hard as nails, but from that day onwards was a very poor creature indeed.

Enter page number Go  Previous Next
Page 209 of 244
Words from 56589 to 56890 of 66164