The roe deer had been started by Dan Glass. He had been walking down the edge of the wood and had seen it run from him between the trees. He knew there were roe deer about because he had seen tracks and droppings but they were extraordinarily elusive and it was some months since he had seen one. It was a young male halfway through its autumn moult. He paused for a moment to take note of the exact position – it would be a good place to come back to with some plaster of Paris and make a mould from a fresh footprint – then hurried to bring himself level with Tom Harker, who was next to him in the line of beaters. Tom, who was whistling and tapping rather mechanically now, looking forward to the break for lunch, had taken care to change his position in the line; he did not want to walk next to someone who had succumbed to the evils of alcohol. The man of whom he thought in these disapproving terms, a woodman by the name of Walter Weir, was up towards the other end of the line, where Glass had noticed his condition and hoped he might soon sweat it out. The steady progress over sometimes rough ground was hot work, and even those men who were free of the particular disadvantage under which Walter Weir was labouring found the pauses between drives a relief. Then they could feel the fresh breeze, and the slight chill as the sweat dried on their faces.

Glass was preoccupied by his responsibilities. Well though he knew his job, he knew also that this day – the last day of the biggest shooting party of the year – was the culmination of his year’s work. Of course, there would be other shoots. The second big shoot at Nettleby was towards the end of November but traditionally the important one – the one to which the best sportsmen were invited – was during the last week of October. The fact of some of the leaves being still on the trees was a welcome challenge: less expert shots preferred to come later in the year. Apart from the two big parties, extending each over three days, there would be day shoots, and after Christmas there would be two or three days for shooting cocks only, but none of this was anything like as important as the October shoot. The October shoot was the one for the crowned heads and the famous sportsmen, Lord Hartlip, Mr Stephens, Lord Lilburn: when Royalty was here, the last two drives down by the river were often watched by a crowd of spectators lining the opposite bank to see the performance, constituting incidentally one of his worst worries. They could not be relied upon to keep quiet, had been known to call out comments or encouragement. He would never forget the day, the last time the late King had shot at Nettleby, when a loud and none too sober voice from the crowd had shouted, just as the first birds flew out, ‘Come on, Teddy, give ’em what for!’ He had never been able to find out who it was.