The keepers sat farther up the slope smoking their master's tobacco--sure sign of a well-spent morning.
For the party had been on the moors by eight, and for five burning hours had tramped the heather.

All wore light and airy shooting-clothes save the doctor, who had merely buckled gaiters over his professional black trousers.

All were burned to a tawny brown, and all lay in different attitudes of gasping ease.

Few things so clearly proclaim a man's past as his posture when lounging.

Arthur and Wratislaw lay, like townsmen, prone on their faces with limbs rigidly straight.