"Then I suppose there's nothing to be said!"
In the meantime, Osborn's friends had left the other butts and come up, with Jardine in front. He was a fat, red-faced man, and as he got nearer remarked to his companions: "I call it wretched bad management! Somebody ought to have turned the fellows off the moor."
Osborn heard and glanced at Thorn as he left the butt. "There is something to be said; I'm going to relieve my mind."
He went off and signaled the farmers to stop. They waited, standing quietly by their horses. On the open moor, their powerful figures had a touch of grace, and their clothes, faded by sun and rain, harmonized with the color of the heath. Peter Askew's brown face was inscrutable when he fixed his steady eyes on Osborn.
"You turned back the grouse and spoiled the beat. Do you call that sporting?" Osborn asked.
"I'm sorry," Peter replied. "If I'd kenned you were shooting, mayhappen we could have put off loading the peat."
"You knew we were shooting when you saw the beaters."
"Aw, yis," said Peter. "It was over late then. I wadn't willingly spoil any man's sport, but we had browt up eight horses and had to get to work."
"You have plenty of work at Ashness."
"It's verra true; but the weather's our master and we canna awtogether do what we like. The peat's mair important than a few brace of grouse."