There came the whir of wings from the edge of the Long Copse on the northern boundary of Staple Farm, followed immediately by the sharp report of a gun, and a bird came hurtling down through the deepening dusk of the November day and fell with a thud on the ploughed land that stretched away from the cospe to the sky-line in a low rise. The man with the gun spoke to his dog who plunged forward in a hustle of swift obedience and brought the dead bird to his master's feet. There was a movement in the copse as he stood to pick it up, and another man came out into the open and moved over the heavy ground towards him.