On the next morning they started at seven.  Dobbes had determined to be cross, because, as he thought, the young men would certainly keep him waiting; and was cross because by their punctuality they robbed him of any just cause for offence.  During the morning on the moor they were hardly near enough each other for much conversation, and very little was said.  According to the arrangement made they returned to the house for lunch, it being their purpose not to go far from home till their numbers were complete.  As they came over the bridge and put down their guns near the door, Mr Dobbes spoke the first good-humoured word they had heard from his lips.  ’Why did you tell me such an infernal-, I would say lie, only perhaps you mightn’t like it.’

‘I told you no lie,’ said Gerald.

’You’ve only missed two birds all the morning, and you have shot forty-two.  That’s uncommonly good sport.’

‘What have you done?’

‘Only forty,’ and Mr Dobbes seemed for the moment to be gratified by his own inferiority.  ’You are a deuced sight better than your brother.’

‘Gerald’s about the best shot I know,’ said Silverbridge.

‘Why didn’t he tell?’

‘Because you were angry when we said the place was ugly.’

‘I see all about it,’ said Dobbes.  ’Nevertheless when a fellow comes to shoot he shouldn’t complain because a place isn’t pretty.  What you want is a decent house as near as you can have it to your ground.  If there is anything in Scotland to beat Crummie-Toddie I don’t know where to find it.  Shooting is shooting you know, and touring is touring.’

Upon that he took very kindly to Lord Gerald, who, even after the arrival of the other men, was second only in skill to Dobbes himself.  With Nidderdale, who was an old companion, he got on very well.  Nidderdale drank and ate too much, and refused to be driven beyond a certain amount of labour, but was in other respects obedient and knew what he was about.  Popplecourt was disagreeable, but he was a fairly good shot and understood what was expected of him.  Silverbridge was so good-humoured, that even his manifest faults,—­shooting carelessly, lying in bed, and wanting his dinner,—­were, if not forgiven at least endured.  But Tregear was an abomination.  He could shoot well enough and was active, and when he was at the work seemed to like it;—­but he would stay away whole days by himself, and when spoken to would answer in a manner which seemed to Dobbes to flat mutiny.  ’We are not doing it for our bread,’ said Tregear.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘There’s not a duty in killing a certain number of these animals.’  They had been driving deer on the day before and were to continue the work on the day in question.  ’I’m not paid fifteen shillings a week for doing it.’

’I suppose if you undertake to do a thing you mean to do it.  Of course you’re not wanted.  We can make the double party without you.’