At precisely half-past eight the beaters, or rather that proportion of them who had been called for at this early hour – for another forty men were to meet them an hour later to start beating the bigger woods – began to walk slowly through the clump, tapping the tree trunks with sticks as they went and emitting a mixture of low-pitched churring, whistling and whooping sounds according to their various preferences. They wore long smocks made of thick whitish drill which came below their knees and gave them an antique look. The purpose was not picturesque but rather to give each man a distinguishing protective covering and to prevent unauthorized persons joining them – poachers spying out the land, vagrants hoping to claim a wage at the end of the day, even curious spectators.

Glass felt happier now that his army was on the move. His two dogs at his heels, he glanced along the line at the man next to him to make sure that no one was going too fast and moved resolutely forward through a tangle of bramble bushes.

Tom Harker further down the line was whistling a high clear whistle every now and then and occasionally giving his nearest neighbour a scornful look. It was quite clear the latter had been drinking. His unshaven face was blotchy, and it had been only too obvious to anyone standing near him while Mr Glass was issuing his instructions that his breath was still heavily laden with beer. Judging by his unsteady progress through the wood and the occasional echoing belch he was hardly sober yet.

‘The Lord have mercy on his soul,’ said Tom Harker quite loudly, raising his eyes heavenwards. As he did so he saw a red squirrel watching him from a high branch. It turned with a flick of its tail and clawed its way up the tree trunk, ran along a thin undulating branch, jumped to another far below and disappeared.

‘He’ll get you if he can,’ said Tom Harker. ‘Nail you to a fence he will. Just like our blessed Lord. For stealing an egg or two to keep body and soul together.’

He had not meant to imply that Christ was a stealer of pheasants’ eggs; what he meant to convey (if only to himself) was the important point that just because they had dressed him up in a frock and were going to give him a few shillings and a decent bowl of stew and a baked potato (he hoped), it was no use anybody thinking he was going to forget which side he was on.