Sir Everard Dominey, Baronet, the latest and most popular recruit to Norfolk sporting society, stood one afternoon, some months after his return from Germany, at the corner of the long wood which stretched from the ridge of hills behind almost to the kitchen gardens of the Hall.

At a reasonable distance on his left, four other guns were posted.

On one side of him stood Middleton, leaning on his ash stick and listening to the approach of the beaters; on the other, Seaman, curiously out of place in his dark grey suit and bowler hat.

The old keeper, whom time seemed to have cured of all his apprehensions, was softly garrulous and very happy.
"That do seem right to have a Squire Dominey at this corner," he observed, watching a high cock pheasant come crashing down over their heads.

"I mind when the Squire, your father, sir, gave up this corner one day to Lord Wendermere, whom folks called one of the finest pheasant shots in England, and though they streamed over his head like starlings, he'd nowt but a few cripples to show for his morning's work." "Come out with a bit of a twist from the left, don't they ?" Dominey remarked, repeating his late exploit.
"They do that, sir," the old man assented, "and no one but a Dominey seems to have learnt the knack of dealing with them proper.