He killed his bird as clean as though he had done nothing else all his life, and indeed, I think he was half turned about from the score before the bird was down.

"Dead bird!" called the referee, with jaw closing like a steel trap.
Stevenson whispered to me this time.

"Get full on with your first," he said.

"They're lead-packers--old ones, every one, and a picked lot." I was a trifle angry with myself by this time, but it only left me well keyed.

My bird fell dead inside of Orme's.