foreign country or remoter part of the British Isles. It was indeed
illustrative of Mr. Pendyce's character and whole point of view that
whenever a rare, winged stranger appeared on his own estate it was
talked of as an event, and preserved alive with the greatest care, in
the hope that it might breed and be handed down with the property; but
if it were personally known to belong to Mr. Fuller or Lord Quarryman,
whose estates abutted on Worsted Skeynes, and there was grave and
imminent danger of its going back, it was promptly shot and stuffed,
that it might not be lost to posterity. An encounter with another
landowner having the same hobby, of whom there were several in his
neighbourhood, would upset him for a week, making him strangely morose,
and he would at once redouble his efforts to add something rarer than
ever to his own collection.

His arrangements for shooting were precisely conceived. Little slips of
paper with the names of the "guns" written thereon were placed in a hat,
and one by one drawn out again, and this he always did himself. Behind
the right wing of the house he held a review of the beaters, who filed
before him out of the yard, each with a long stick in his hand, and no
expression on his face. Five minutes of directions to the keeper, and
then the guns started, carrying their own weapons and a sufficiency of
cartridges for the first drive in the old way.

A misty radiance clung over the grass as the sun dried the heavy
dew; the thrushes hopped and ran and hid themselves, the rooks cawed
peacefully in the old elms. At an angle the game cart, constructed on
Mr. Pendyce's own pattern, and drawn by a hairy horse in charge of an
aged man, made its way slowly to the end of the first beat:

George lagged behind, his hands deep in his pockets, drinking in the joy