I  went  from  there  to  St.  Petersburg,  where  I  received  from an  old  friend  a  present  that  was  very  acceptable  to  me.  It  was a   pointer  dog,  a  descendant  of  that  famous  pointer  bitch  who brought  into  the  world  a  litter  of  puppies  while  she  was coursing  a  hare.  Unhappily,  this  dog  was  killed  by  an  awkward sportsman,  who  shot  him  while  firing  at  a  covey  of  partridges.  I had  made  out  of  his  skin  the  waistcoat  that  I  am  now  wearing, which,  when  I  go  out  shooting,  invariably  leads  me  up  to  the place  where  the  game  lies.  When  I  am  near  enough  to  be  within shot,  a  button  flies  off  towards  the  place  where  the  game  is lying,  and  as  I  always  carry  my  gun  charged  and  at  full  cock, I  never  fail  to  bring  my  bird  down.

I  have  got  three  buttons  left,  as  you  see;  but  as  soon  as the    shooting  season  begins,  I  shall   have  two  rows   put  on.

- Chapter 17