The snipe showed themselves in numbers.

They kept flying up from just under the dogs, from under the sportsmen's legs, and Levin might have retrieved his ill luck.

But the more he shot, the more he felt disgraced in the eyes of Veslovsky, who kept popping away merrily and indiscriminately, killing nothing, and not in the slightest abashed by his ill success.

Levin, in feverish haste, could not restrain himself, got more and more out of temper, and ended by shooting almost without a hope of hitting.