Thorpe's first pheasant reeled in the air,
described a somersault, and fell like a plummet.
He stirred not a step, but reloaded the barrel with a hand
shaking for joy. From where he stood he could see the
dead bird; there could never have been a cleaner "kill."
In the warming glow of his satisfaction in himself,
there kindled a new liking of a different sort for Plowden
and Balder. He owed to them, at this belated hour
of his life, a novel delight of indescribable charm.
There came to him, from the woods, the shrill bucolic
voice of the keeper, admonishing a wayward dog. He was
conscious of even a certain tenderness for this keeper--and
again the cry of "mark!" rose, strenuously addressed to him.
Half an hour later the wood had been cleared, and Thorpe
saw the rest of the party assembling by the gate. He did
not hurry to join them, but when Lord Plowden appeared he
sauntered slowly over, gun over arm, with as indifferent
an air as he could simulate. It pleased him tremendously
that no one had thought it worth while to approach the
rendezvous by way of the spot he had covered. His eye
took instant stock of the game carried by two of the boys;
their combined prizes were eight birds and a rabbit,
and his heart leaped within him at the count.
"Well, Thorpe?" asked Plowden, pleasantly.
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