He heard the beaters in the wood as they came through the undergrowth, occasionally whistling or calling out, tapping the tree-trunks and frightening the blackbirds who scattered with alarm calls through the bushes. Then the pheasants began to call. One or two must have flown out on the other side where he could not see them – ‘Over!’ he heard ‘Over on the right!’ – then shots, then a few more shots, and then suddenly they all seemed to break, hundreds of pheasants it seemed, flying out over the guns (beautifully presented, as usual, Tom noted, in grudging recognition of Glass’s expertise), and all the guns seemed to be firing at once. He could see his three, each with two loaders, one to receive the empty gun, one to hand it back re-loaded, while the shooter himself never moved his gaze from the oncoming birds. A few birds seemed to be getting away over the man furthest away from Tom, but the two nearest him – they were Lord Hartlip and Lionel Stephens – were shooting with a speed and accuracy from which as a fellow sportsman he was unable to withhold his admiration. A smaller bird made a sudden appearance to one side of the wood, flying very fast. An easy swing from Lord Hartlip and it fell, a woodcock to add to his score. You wouldn’t see better sport anywhere in England, Tom Harker thought, finding no difficulty in accommodating that notion in his mind along with his views about the stranglehold of the rich on the life-blood of the working man. The fusillade of shots coming to an end, he heard Glass’s voice calling loudly ‘All out, Sir Randolph,’ and watched the men who had been shooting relax, strolling towards each other, hands in their pockets or lighting cigarettes, having handed their guns to their loaders to be carried home, while the dogs, encouraged by their handlers, hurried about their work of retrieving the fallen birds, and the game cart, drawn by the old cart-horse whose job this had been for nearly twenty years, drew near to receive its final burden of the day. The beaters in their distinguishing, long cream-coloured smocks emerged from the wood. He saw Glass talking to a group of them – giving them their instructions for tomorrow probably – while Sir Randolph walked over to join them, his odd, wide-brimmed old hat marking him out from the others. What a long time they took to disperse, Tom thought. Didn’t they want to get home to their tea? There were even one or two ladies with them, who having joined the party for lunch had stood with the guns afterwards and, unlike the rest of the wives, daughters or whatever they might be, had stuck it out until the end, perhaps because it was such a warm afternoon. After the early-morning mist, the sun had shone all day – back at the house it had been a great day for flapping dusters at the insects – and Minnie had said at lunch, ‘Really the autumn colours are better than ever this year,’ and Sir Randolph had said, ‘You say that every year,’ looking at her plump slightly flushed face (she was wearing her new tweeds and was a good deal too hot) with that rather ironical, rather penetrating look which not everyone knew betokened affection. Minnie was a foolish woman in many ways and not everyone knew that in her husband’s eyes her foolishness constituted a great part of her charm.