CHAPTER VIII.
THE GUN CLUB.
"Baw Jawve, it would be sport if a fellah could draw on a grouse on a Scotch moor, don't you 'now! It would be something great to knock such a bird into the heather.

There really isn't any shooting in this country to be compared to that, don't you 'now!" Willis Paulding drawled this in his affected style, and then swung the handsome English Greener hammerless to his shoulder and squinted down the barrels as if he fancied he heard the whirring of a moor cock's wings and felt the thrill of the sportsman tingling through his veins.
"What's the matter with partridge and woodcock shooting in New England?
Or quail shooting in the West and South?
Or duck shooting on the Southwest coast?
Or prairie-chicken and grouse shooting in the far West and Rocky Mountains ?" demanded Merriwell, who had arrived on the grounds of the gun club with Bart Hodge and was taking his gun out of its case.
Paulding flushed.
"If you had ever shot grouse across the big pond, you 'now, you wouldn't ask such a question, Merriwell!" "I have shot grouse on the other side of the big pond, and it is fine sport, true enough.

But there is just as fine shooting to be had in America.

You make me tired.

You want to act like an Englishman, Paulding, but it is an insult to the English, for your imitation is really disgraceful.