collection of birds almost equal to his
master's, came up too.

"You're end gun, George," he said; "you'll get a nice high bird!"

George felt the ground with his feet, and blew a speck of dust off
his barrels, and the smell of the oil sent a delicious tremor darting
through him. Everything, even Helen Bellew, was forgotten. Then in
the silence rose a far-off clamour; a cock pheasant, skimming low, his
plumage silken in the sun, dived out of the green and golden spinney,
curled to the right, and was lost in undergrowth. Some pigeons passed
over at a great height. The tap-tap of sticks beating against trees
began; then with a fitful rushing noise a pheasant came straight out.
George threw up his gun and pulled. The bird stopped in mid-air, jerked
forward, and fell headlong into the grass sods with a thud. In the
sunlight the dead bird lay, and a smirk of triumph played on George's
lips. He was feeling the joy of life.

During his covert shoots the Squire had the habit of recording his
impressions in a mental note-book. He put special marks against such as
missed, or shot birds behind the waist, or placed lead in them to the
detriment of their market value, or broke only one leg of a hare at a
time, causing the animal to cry like a tortured child, which some men do
not like; or such as, anxious for fame, claimed dead creatures that
they had not shot, or peopled the next beat with imaginary slain, or
too frequently "wiped an important neighbour's eye," or shot too many
beaters in the legs. Against this evidence, however, he unconsciously
weighed the more undeniable social facts, such as the title of Winlow's
father; Sir James Malden's coverts, which must also presently be shot;
Thomas Brandwhite's position in the financial world; General Pendyce's
relationship to himself; and the importance of the English Church.
Against Foxleigh alone he could put no marks. The fellow destroyed
everything that came within reach with utter precision, and this was
perhaps fortunate, for Foxleigh had neither title, coverts, position,
nor cloth! And the Squire weighed one thing else besides--the pleasure
of giving them all a good day's sport, for his heart was kind.

The sun had fallen well behind the home wood when the guns stood waiting
for the last drive of the day. From the keeper's cottage in the hollow,
where late threads of crimson clung in the brown network of Virginia
creeper, rose a mist of wood smoke, dispersed upon the breeze.