Out in the King's Ride the pheasants were being driven across the noses
of the guns. Up they spurted from the underwood like heavy rockets,
reddish purple rockets, and as they rose the guns cracked in order
Newport Cigarette,
eagerly, sharply
Wholesale Newport Cigarettes, as if a line of dogs had suddenly barked. Tufts of
white smoke held together for a moment; then gently solved themselves,
faded
Cheap Newport 100s, and dispersed.
Then the Squire, with the hang-dog stained face, in the shabby gaiters,
cursed and raised his gun.