Nowadays, the First on a large shoot passes much as other days, for
October has usurped the prestige of September, and the big partridge
drives are reserved until that month. But when the keeper goes home
to his tea on the First, his wife, with ever-ready sympathy, is
likely enough to notice "summat's up." There is a scowl on the tanned
face, and a vindictive look in the keen eyes, and the way in which
the thirsty throat is flushed with a pint or so of tea suggests a
forlorn attempt to drown trouble. At last the murder is out: "They
pot-hunters," growls the keeper, "they has bin and wiped out half
my birds." Shots have been heard all day near his boundary; on the
neighbouring small shoot the First has not been allowed to go by
unhonoured.
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