It was not Gaiters’s way to march through the wood at that hour in the morning.  What meant this unseemly disturbance of Phasianus’s domain?  His suspicions, never long at rest, woke up.  Moreover, somewhere at the back of his brain rose a memory, a little, tiny speck of a memory, which grew.

Then he stood right up.

Everywhere, here and there, in the gray cloak of the dawn-mist, he could hear the sharp “Chawk-chawk!” and the quick, flustered whir as pheasant after pheasant came down from its roosting-perch to clean and breakfast.  But his suspicions held him for a few minutes longer, stretching his neck and peering about at the still-shrouded mystery of the ground below; and it was as well, perhaps.

Suddenly his head was still; a spray of a brier-bush was swaying gently.  There was nothing in that, of course, if there had been any breath of wind to move it; but there wasn’t.  Wherefore our gallant friend did not come down to preen and breakfast like the rest, but sat motionless as a statue, while the sun rose and touched him to a winking golden and bronze wonder, and the mists began to be torn asunder.  He wanted to know what moved that brier-branch, and he wasn’t taking chances till he did.

Day came on apace, and all the night hunters who had remained so late had already hurried off to bed save one. He appeared, evidently empty, certainly very angry indeed at having waited for a cock-pheasant who refused to do what he was supposed to do and come down to breakfast.  Out of the brier-bush he came, a lean dog-fox, snarling horribly up at the pheasant, who calmly returned the gaze, conscious of his safety, of course, and said “Chuck it!” in a loud, harsh voice, and quite distinctly, twice.

The fox, knowing it was no good to wait any longer in the daylight, went, like a floating red shadow.  The pheasant watched him go, but did not move for some time.  Foxes had been known to come back again more suddenly than they went.

At last he flew to the earth, but even then he did so as silently as his noisy wings would let him; and he did not announce the fact with a half-crow, as the others had done.  Very circumspectly he slipped off through the undergrowth, by a series of little crouching runs, stopping every now and then to freeze and listen.

Soon he came to one of those open, beautiful, grass-covered “rides” with which keepers intersect pheasant-coverts.  He stopped dead on the edge of it, himself invisible among the drooping, leaning, old-gold bracken.  The “ride” was full of wood-people, for here had been scattered that corn which Gaiters intended the pheasants to feed upon.  Indeed, there were about ten pheasants, hens and young cocks of the year, doing exactly what they were intended to do.  Also, there were some half-dozen softly-tinged, blue-gray wood-pigeons, and one cheeky jay—­whose wing-patches rivaled the perfection of the blue sky above—­doing their best in a quiet sort of way to help the pheasants, which they were not intended to do, by any manner of means.