That foreign Prince, so they say, is well on to his birds, but I wouldn't trust him at this corner." The old man moved off a few paces to some higher ground, to watch the progress of the beaters through the wood.

Seaman turned to his companion, and there was a note of genuine admiration in his tone.
"My friend," he declared, "You are a miracle.

You seem to have developed the Dominey touch even in killing pheasants." "You must remember that I have shot higher ones in Hungary," was the easy reply.
"I am not a sportsman," Seaman admitted.

"I do not understand sport.

But I do know this: there is an old man who has lived on this land since the day of his birth, who has watched you shoot, reverently, and finds even the way you hold your gun familiar." "That twist of the birds," Dominey explained, "is simply a local superstition.