George Marway, Sir John’s nephew, was not a natural hunter of wild game, his inclinations running rather towards racing engines and racing skis, so he lay abed, to breakfast later with the ladies and, in due course, act as their chauffeur. When Sir John left the breakfast table and went out to consult with Maclean, the head gamekeeper and his own personal stalker, he found that grey-bearded tough-fibred man of sixty with a concerned expression. Alick had not turned up. “It is unlike him to be late,” said Maclean. Both men stood silent for a little, in a way characteristic of them. “Do you think he’ll come?” asked Sir John, without any impatience. “I’m hoping so,” said Maclean. “It’s not like him to sleep in. Angus has gone over to see if he can see him. He shouldn’t be long.” Geoffrey and Harry came out and joined them. Sir John explained the position and then asked Maclean what his plans were. So they all looked at the sky, and saw the slow carry of the clouds over its blue field, and nodded as Maclean mentioned this hill and that corrie and the next pass.
