It always happened with Levin that when his first shots were a failure he got hot and out of temper, and shot badly the whole day.

So it was that day.

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.