Last week King George had a dinner of fine plump red Scotch grouse shipped by express from Balmoral Castle, but many another grouse-loving Briton ate mutton or went hungry. On the morning of the Twelfth—opening date of the Scottish grouse season—a violent thunderstorm swept over the moors, leaving boggy ground and a heavy mist in its wake. Sportsmen standing ankle-deep in the sticky peat of shooting butts had no sooner begun popping at dimly seen grouse than another storm broke and drove them home. But not before a gamekeeper had been shot...

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