Upon a lake most obligingly frozen by the hand of Providence, there assembled one bright January morn a company of gentlemen whose purpose, while resembling the rustic pastime of ice-fishing, bore instead the peculiar distinction of being directed not at trout or pike, but at pistols, rifles, and on rare and enviable occasion, at implements of such magnitude as to require a sled to haul them home.

The ice, cracked faintly beneath their boots, gave forth the sort of crystalline groan that lent gravity to even the most foolish endeavor. A kettle of tea hissed upon a brazier, steaming against the pale air, while holes were bored into the ice with hand-augers polished from years of eager use. These were no ordinary apertures, but the very gateways to the “arsenal beneath,” as it was commonly styled in county society.

“Mr. Pembroke,” declared young Mr. Ellis, whose scarf was tied with admirable precision though his nose betrayed a livid red from the cold, “if I should land another Glock this day, I shall be quite undone. A gentleman cannot be expected to mount his mantle with such vulgarity thrice in one season.”

Mr. Pembroke, who possessed the calm countenance of a man frequently in possession of superior calibres, adjusted his gloves with evident satisfaction. “Pray, do not despair, Ellis. One must recall that while the lesser pistols are tiresome, they oft come before a finer prize. Indeed, last winter my perseverance through three Glocks and a jammed revolver was handsomely rewarded by a Gatling of most formidable persuasion.”

At this recollection, Mr. Carruthers, whose patience was of the sort that admitted neither interruption nor boredom, leaned heavily upon his rod. “A Gatling, you say? Sir, I contend the man who lands such a prize is the envy of all Hertfordshire. But I must confess—” here the line upon his pole twitched in the most suspicious manner, “—I believe fortune now deigns to favor me.”

The line stiffened. The rod bowed as though it were paying respects to royalty. Then came the staccato sound of gunfire below the ice, each report muffled yet terrible. Mr. Carruthers braced himself, heels skidding upon the glassy surface. The others stepped respectfully aside, knowing full well that to interfere with another gentleman’s catch was both improper and perilous.

“Steady!” cried Ellis, who flinched each time a bullet ricocheted beneath the frozen sheet, “for Heaven’s sake, Carruthers, do not let it breach the surface with the safety off!”

With all the dignity of a man wrangling a most improper trout, Carruthers hauled back his line. A sleek form emerged—a polished carbine, spitting rounds skyward as though it detested its very captivity. Pembroke, with characteristic aplomb, removed his hat and inclined his head to the prize. “A Winchester, by the look. Serviceable, though perhaps lacking the drama of a chaingun.”

The weapon continued to buck and snarl upon the ice until Carruthers subdued it with a practiced hand, slipping on his leather gauntlets before securing the safety. “Gentlemen,” he said, panting slightly, “I accept your envy.”

Their tea was poured, steaming in the chill, as the day progressed with similar episodes—Ellis indeed reeling up another Glock to his great mortification, Pembroke producing a double-barreled shotgun that attempted to discharge into his coat-tails, and Carruthers contentedly oiling his Winchester while discoursing at length upon the fortunes of men patient in their pursuit.

Thus, as the sun waned, and the last volleys of ice-locked ordnance echoed faintly beneath the lake, the party retired in good spirits, their sleds laden with gleaming, quarrelsome prizes. That such a practice might strike others as odd was of little consequence; in Hertfordshire, a gentleman’s winter sport was best measured not by trout nor pike, but by the caliber of his catch.