Smoker is sent forward, and he gathers and brings in the old hen and two young birds from out of the deep heather.
No doubt the old cock is a runner.
David and Daisy sit down whilst I go forward and put Smoker on to where the old bird dropped.
We sit and watch him; see the old dog threading the scent at a quick pace in and out amongst the peat hags.
Oh dear, the bird has taken down the burn and we may lose him.
But no; an hundred yards below out comes Smoker from the burn triumphant, with the old cock, which he delivers up without a scratch save the broken pinion.
Daisy is now away to find a fresh point. What has Smoker pointing there, with a look that says as plain as dogs can speak, that fool, Daisy, who thinks so much of herself in her hurry to get fresh points, has left a close sitting bird in that tuft of good heather.
Yes, Smoker is right, as he always is in all he does, and another bird is flushed and bagged.
The brood was seven, and now but two away, thanks to the studious care and intelligence of my two four-footed friends.
And what fine birds, with their white speckled breasts! the young ones as large as the old ones.