He lived--and spread consternation amongst the gentry for miles round.
"Lord, how I wish poor Arthur hadn't died!" old John Chubble used to cry.

He had hunted the West Sussex hounds for thirty years and the very name of Little Beeding turned his red face purple.

"There was a man.

But this fellow! And to think he's got that beautiful house! Do you know there's hardly a pheasant on the place.

And I've hashed them down out of the sky in the old days there by the dozen.