“That is right.”
“Amost wonder as they came here, sir,” whispered Browsem. “Never knowed ’em do it afore, ’cause they’re feared o’ Munday’s Ghost.”
“Munday’s Ghost?” I said.
“Yes, sir; pore chap as were shot. They do say as he walks still, but there’s a sight o’ pheasants here.”
It was one of those dark heavy nights late in winter, when the last oak-leaves have fallen, and every step you take through the thickly strewn glades rustles loudly. The wind just sighed by us as we pressed on along a path through a plantation, and then once or twice I fancied I heard guns to the right, far off behind the house. But I forgot them the next moment, for my heart beat, and the excitement increased, for just on in front came two loud and distinct reports.
“They’re at it,” growled my uncle, forgetting his gout, and loosing my arm. “Now Browsem, you and Todds go round, and we’ll come forward, only mind when I whistle, it’s for help.”
The next moment I was going to speak to the keeper, but I started, for he was gone, and on looking behind I found Todds had also vanished, quiet as a snake, for my uncle and I stood alone.
“You’ll stick to me, Dick?” whispered the old gentleman.
“Conditions,” I said in the same voice.
“What? the white feather,” growled the old gentleman.