As they climbed Malton Head another of the party had broken Dowthwaite’s drystone wall and the farmer had said more about the accident than the damage justified.  In fact, Dowthwaite was rather aggressive, and now Osborn came to think of it, one or two others had recently grumbled about things they had hitherto borne without complaint.

In the meantime, Osborn and Thorn, who shared his butt, looked about while they waited for the beaters.  The row of turf banks, regularly spaced, ran back to the Force Crags at the head of the dale.  The red bloom of the ling was fading from the moor, which had begun to get brown.  Sunshine and shadow swept across it, and the blue sky was dotted by flying, white-edged clouds.  A keen wind swept the high tableland, and the grouse, flying before it, would come over the butts very fast.

In the distance, one could distinguish a row of figures that were presently lost in a hollow and got larger when they reappeared.  They were beaters, driving the grouse, and by and by Osborn, picking up his glasses, saw clusters of small dark objects that skimmed and then dropped into the heath.  It was satisfactory to note that they were numerous.  Although the birds were rather wild, he could now give his friends some sport.  After a time, however, the clusters of dark dots were seen first to scatter and then vanish.  Osborn frowned as he gave Thorn the glasses.

“What does that mean?  Looks as if the birds had broken back.”

“Some have broken back,” said Thorn.  “If they’ve flown over the beaters, we have lost them for the afternoon.”  He paused and resumed:  “I think the first lot are dropping.  No; they’re coming on.”

Picking up his gun, he watched the advancing grouse.  They flew low but very fast, making a few strokes at intervals and then sailing on stretched wings down the wind.  In a few moments they were large and distinct, but there were not enough to cross more than the first two butts.  When they were fifty yards off Thorn threw up his gun and two pale flashes leaped out.  Osborn was slower and swung his barrel.  The sharp reports were echoed from the next butt and a thin streak of smoke that looked gray in the sunshine drifted across the bank of turf.  Two brown objects, spinning round, struck the heath and a few light feathers followed.  The grouse that had escaped went on and got small again.

“Missed with my right,” said Osborn.  “Had to shoot on the swing.  Don’t know about the other barrel.”

Thorn did know, but used some tact.  “I may have been a trifle slow; my last bird was going very fast.”

“I expect you saw whose bird it was,” Osborn said to the lad who took their guns.

“Yes, sir; Mr. Thorn’s, sir.”

“Oh, well,” said Osborn, forcing a smile as he turned to Thorn, “you have youth upon your side.  Anyhow, I don’t imagine the others have done much better, and it looks as if we might as well go home.  When the birds broke back we lost the best chance we’ll get.  I wonder what spoiled the drive?”