The scent of the coverts stole to him, and he thought: 'What a ripping day for shooting!' The Squire, wearing a suit carefully coloured so that no bird should see him, leather leggings, and a cloth helmet of his own devising, ventilated by many little holes, came up to his son; and the spaniel John, who had a passion for the collection of birds almost equal to his master's, came up too.
"You're end gun, George," he said; "you'll get a nice high bird!" George felt the ground with his feet, and blew a speck of dust off his barrels, and the smell of the oil sent a delicious tremor darting through him.

Everything, even Helen Bellew, was forgotten.

Then in the silence rose a far-off clamour; a cock pheasant, skimming low, his plumage silken in the sun, dived out of the green and golden spinney, curled to the right, and was lost in undergrowth.

Some pigeons passed over at a great height.

The tap-tap of sticks beating against trees began; then with a fitful rushing noise a pheasant came straight out.
George threw up his gun and pulled.