Where he got this history from I do not know.
One bright October morning (towards the end of the month) Dickon drove me over to the old place with his fast trotter--our double-barrels hidden under some sacks in the trap.

The keeper was already waiting in the kitchen, sipping a glass of hot purl; the butler was filling every pocket with cartridges.

After some comparison of their betting-books, for Dickon, on account of his acquaintance with the training establishments, was up to most moves, we started.

The keeper had to send a certain number of pheasants and other game to the absent family and their friends every now and then, and this duty was his pretext.

There was plenty of shooting to be got elsewhere, but the spice of naughtiness about this was alluring.