The Hunt

The hunt for quails had begun. Two old men sat on a bench on the main street. A shot rang out of the stillness of the countryside. Below one old man, weak-sighted but the sound of hearing, raised his head towards the ridge. "He missed! Surely the fool has missed!" he said. Up the street, two youths approached, both carried a double-barrelled repeater. Both had empty bags. The two young men stopped in front of them. "Oliver would have hit any bird even with half-blind eyes," the taller one said. "And you, Bert? Come with us tomorrow?" Laughing, they continued their way. "Of course, rest assured we are indeed men! I lost count of the number of quails I caught!" "We are men! You know what, we’ll go hunting too." Two heads, one white, one bald, nodded in unison. “We’ll meet early at six tomorrow.” They agreed. The town hall clock rang out every hour. Six o’clock struck. Nature slept on. Below, in an alley, two old men dreamt. Damn fools! They moaned in their sleep. Why can’t they shoot straight?