"Taking away his Character."
Just try him. Suppose you are shooting a wood, in which you expect to find a considerable number of pheasants. The guns are posted, the beaters have begun to move at the far end of the wood. Suddenly you are aware of a commotion in the middle of the wood. Here and there pheasants rise long before the beaters have approached. There is a whirring of wings, and dozens of birds sail away, un-shot at, to right, to left, and all over the place. And then, while you are still wondering what this may mean, a fine dog-fox comes sliding out from the covert. Away he goes at top speed across the open. The little stops view him as he passes, and far and near the air resounds with shrill "yoick!" and "tally-ho!" In the end four birds are brought to bag, where twenty at least had been expected. When the beat is over, this is the kind of conversation you will probably hear:—
First Beater (to a colleague). I seed 'un, Jim; a great, fine fox 'e were, a slinkin' off jest afore we coom up. "Go it," I says to myself; "go it, Muster Billy Fox, you bin spoilin' sport, I'll warrant, time you was off"; and out 'e popped as sly as fifty on 'em, ah, that 'e was.
Second B. Ah! I lay 'e was that. Where did 'e slip to, Tom?
First B. I heerd 'em a hollerin' away by Chuff's Farm. Reckon 'e's goin' to hev 'is supper there, to-night.
Second B. And a pretty meal 'e'll make of it. Pheasant for breakfast, pheasant for dinner, pheasant for tea; I'll lay 'e don't get much thinner.
One of the Guns (to the Keeper). Nuisance about that fox, Sykes.
Keeper. Nuisance, Sir? You may say that. Why, I've seen as many as four o' them blamed varmints one after another in this 'ere blessed wood. Did you see 'im, Sir? I wish you'd a shot 'im just by mistake. Nobody wouldn't a missed 'im. But there, a-course I daren't touch 'em. Mr. Chalmers wouldn't like it, and a-course I couldn't bring myself to do it. But I do say, we've got too many on 'em, and we never get the hounds, or if they do come, they can't kill. What am I to do? Mr. Chalmers wants birds, and 'e wants foxes too. I tell 'im 'e can't have both. I does my best, but what's a man to do with a couple o' thousand foxes nippin' the heads off of his birds? Fairly breaks my heart, Sir. Keep 'em alive, indeed! Live and let live's my motter, but it ain't the plan o' them blamed foxes.
[And so forth ad lib.
There are other animals which your true keeper holds in aversion. And chief amongst these is the domestic cat. You might as well try to keep a journalist from his writing-paper as country cats from the coverts. They are inveterate and determined poachers, and, alas, they meet with scant mercy from the keeper if he catches them. Many a fireside tabby or tortoise-shell dies a violent death in the course of every year, and is buried in a secret grave. This often gives rise to disturbance, for the cottager, to whom the deceased was as the apple of her eye, may make complaint of the keeper to his master. My friend Sykes, one of the best keepers I know, once related to me an incident of this nature. As it may help to explain the nature of keepers, and throw light on the conversational method to be adopted with them, I here set down the winged words in which Sykes addressed me.
"Trouble, Sir? I believe you. Them old women gives me a peck o' trouble, far more nor the breakin' of a retriever dog. There's old Mrs. Padstow, Mother Padds we call 'er, she's a rare old teaser. Went up to Mr. Chalmers last week and told 'im I'd shot 'er pet cat. Mr. Chalmers, 'e spoke to me about it; said I'd better go and make it right with the old gal. So, yesterday I goes to call upon 'er. First we passed the time o' day together, and then we got to business. You see, Sir, me and the old lady had always been friendly, so I took it on the friendly line. 'Look 'ere,' I says, 'Mrs. Padstow, I've come about a cat.' 'Ah,' she says. 'It's just this way,' I says, 'Mr. Chalmers tells me you said I'd shot your cat. Now,' I says, straightenin' myself up and lookin' proud, 'I couldn't scarcely believe that, and you and me such good friends, so I've just come to ask you if you did say that. She was a bit took aback at this, so I asked 'er again. 'Well,' she says, 'I didn't exactly say that.' 'What did you say then?' I asked her. 'I told Mr. Chalmers,' she says, 'that our old cat 'ad been shot what never did no 'arm, and I thought it might be as you'd a done it, p'raps not meanin' it.' 'Ah,' I says, 'them was your words, was they?' 'Yes,' she says, 'them was my words.' 'Well, then,' I says, 'you'd better be careful what you say next time, or you don't know whose character you'll be takin' away next.' And with that I left 'er."
"But did you shoot the cat, Sykes?" I ventured to ask.
"Did I shoot it? Ho, ho, ha, ha! What do you think! Sir?"
And with that enigmatic answer the dialogue closed.
When referring to a recent Lecture by a certain Noble Marquis (distinguished in the "P.R.-age" of the Realm), the ladies generally say, that they should decidedly object to be married "under the Queensberry Rules." Their prize ring is quite another affair.
"Down among the Coals."—The most appropriate place wherein to try "the scuttle" policy would, of course, be—Newcastle.