A dozen years ago I shot on a private game farm belonging to a very wealthy man. Jim's farm had uniformed gamekeepers, a pigeon ring, and a sporting clays course. Before we shot, he sent me to his clubhouse to pick one of the guest guns from the vault. I settled on a 28 gauge Parker Reproduction and carried it back to his Suburban, the rear springs of which groaned under the weight of the ammunition in back. Jim looked at the gun and his eyes narrowed. "28 gauge, huh?" he said. He handed me two boxes of shells, then strapped a shell pouch around my waist. "You pick up those hulls. They're expensive."