"All I have to say is," observed the more phlegmatic Meredyth, "that if we are going up the hill we may as well take our guns with us and a brace of dogs. We can have an hour or two. The fag-end of the Twelfth is better than no Twelfth; and your sister says she wants some birds."
"Birds?" the other repeated. "What do you expect to find on the ground after those poaching thieves have been over it?"
However, in the end he consented; and as they found that Hector—undisturbed by all those alarming rumours of riot and pillage—had kept everything in readiness for them, the two young men snatched a hasty sandwich and set forth. It was not a very eager shooting party. There was a sensation that the great possibilities of the Twelfth had been ruined for them. Nevertheless, there would be some occupation for the afternoon, and the mistress of the household wanted some grouse.
But, indeed, it soon became evident that it was not shooting that was uppermost in Fred Stanley's mind. He overruled Hector's plan for taking the nearest beats. He would have his companions hold away up the Corrie Bhreag, which leads to the Glen Orme forest; and ever he was making for the higher ranges—scanning the ground far ahead of him, and listening intently in the strange silence; while he was clearly unwilling to have the dogs uncoupled.
"Look here, man," at length said Meredyth, who, though new to the place, had a trained eye for the features of a moor; "surely we have come down wind far enough? It will take us all our time to get back before dinner, even if we pick the beats on the way home——"
The answer was unexpected—a half-smothered exclamation of mingled anger and triumph.
"Didn't I tell you so?" young Stanley exclaimed, with his eyes fixed on a small, dark object a long distance up the glen. "Didn't I tell you we should find him here? Don't you see him—away up yonder? My lad, when you come poaching, you shouldn't put on sailor's clothes; they're too conspicuous. What do you say, Hector: can you make him out? Well, whether you can or not, I will tell you his name. That is Mr. Donald Ross, if you want to know—and I guessed we should find him here or hereabouts!"
"I am not sure," said Hector, slowly, also with his eyes fixed on the distant and dark figure.
"But I am!" Fred Stanley went on. "And perhaps you can tell me what he is doing up on our shooting?"
"Mebbe," said the serious-visaged keeper, with a little hesitation, "mebbe he was waiting to see that none of the lads would be for going into the forest. Or mebbe he was up at Glen Orme."