Another trick to which my co-worker used to resort was to attire himself in broad-brimmed hat and black coat similar to those worn a century ago by the people called Quakers. In the former he carried his nets, and in the capacious pockets of the latter the game he took. These outward guarantees of good faith, away from his own parish, precluded him from ever once being searched. I have already remarked, and every practical poacher knows it to be the fact, that the difficulty is not so much to obtain game as to transport it safely home. Although our dogs were trained to run on a hundred yards in advance so as to give warning of the approach of a possible enemy—even this did not always save us. A big bag of game handicaps one severely in a cross-country run, and it is doubly galling to have to sacrifice it. Well, upon the particular occasion to which I refer there was to be a country funeral with a hearse from the neighbouring market town, and of this I was determined to take advantage. By arranging with the driver I was enabled to stow myself and a large haul in the body of the vehicle, and, although the journey was a cramped and stuffy one, we in time reached our destination. As we came behind the nearest game shop the driver undid the door, and the questionable corpse was safely landed.
I need hardly say that in a long life of poaching there were many occasions when I was brought to book. These, however, would form but a small percentage of the times I was "out." My success in this way was probably owing to the fact that I was chary as to those I took into confidence, and knew that above all things keeping my own council was the best wisdom. Another moucher I knew, but with whom I would have nothing to do, was an instance of one who told poaching secrets to village gossips. The "Mole" spent most of his time in the county gaol, and just lately he completed his sixty-fifth incarceration—only a few of which were for offences outside the game laws. Well, there came a time when all the keepers round the country side had their revenge on me, and they made the most of it. I and my companion were fairly caught by being driven into an ambuscade by a combination of keepers. Exultant in my capture, the keepers from almost every estate in the neighbourhood flocked to witness my conviction. Some of them who had at times only seen a vanishing form in the darkness, now attended to see the man, as they put it. As I had always been followed at nights by an old black bitch, she, too, was produced in court, and proved an object of much curiosity. Well, our case was called, and, as we had no good defence to set up, it was agreed that my companion should do the talking. Without letting it appear so, we had a very definite object in prolonging the hearing of the case. There was never any great inclination to hurry such matters, as the magistrates always seemed to enjoy them. "We had been taken in the act," my co-worker told the bench. "We deserved no quarter, and asked none. Poaching was right by the Bible, but wrong by the law,"—and so he was rushing on. One of the Justices deigned to remark that it was a question of "property" not morality. "Oh!" rejoined the "Otter," "because blue blood doesn't run in my veins that's no reason why I shouldn't have my share. But
it's a queer kind of property that's yours in that field, mine on the turnpike, and a third man's over the next fence." The end of it was, however, a fine of £5, with an alternative. And so the case ended. But that day the keepers and their assistants had forgotten the first principles of watching. The best keeper is the one that is the least seen. Only let the poacher know his whereabouts, and the latter's work is easy. It was afterwards remarked that during our trial not a poacher was in court. To any keeper skilled in his craft this fact must have appeared unusual—and significant. It became even more so when both of us were released by reason of our heavy fine having been paid the same evening. Most of the keepers had had their day out, and were making the most of it. Had their heads not been muddled they might have seen more than one woman labouring under loaded baskets near the local game dealers; these innocently covered with mantling cresses, and so, at the time, escaping suspicion. Upon the memorable day the pheasants had been fed by unseen hands—and had vanished. The only traces left by the covert side were fluffy feathers everywhere. Few hares remained on the land; the rest had either been snared or netted at the gates. The rabbits' burrows had been ferreted, the ferrets having been slyly borrowed at the keeper's cottage during his absence for the occasion. I may say that, in connection with this incident, we always claimed to poach square, and drew the line at home-reared pheasants—allowing them "property." Those found wild in the woods were on a different footing, and we directed our whole knowledge of woodcraft against them.
Here is another "court" incident, in which I and my companion played a part. We came in contact with the law just sufficient to make us know something of its bearings. When charged with being in possession of "game" we reiterated the old argument that rabbits were vermin—but it rarely stood us in good stead. On one occasion, however, we scored. Being committed for two months for "night poaching," we respectfully informed the presiding Justice that, at the time of our capture, the sun had risen an hour; and further, that the law did not allow more than half the sentence just passed upon us. Our magistrate friend—to whom I have more than once referred—was on the bench, and he told his brother Justices that he thought there was something in the contention. The old Clerk looked crabbed as he fumbled for his horn spectacles, and, after turning over a book called "Stone's Justices' Manual," he solemnly informed the bench that defendants in their interpretation were right. We naturally remember this little incident, and as the law has had the whip hand of us upon so many occasions, chuckle over it.
We invariably made friends with the stone-breakers by the road-sides, and just as invariably carried about us stone-breakers' hammers, and "preserves" for the eyes. When hard pressed, and if unknown to the pursuing keeper, nothing is easier than to dismiss the dog, throw off one's coat, plump down upon the first stone heap on the road, and go to work. If the thing is neatly done, and the "preserves" cover the face, it is wonderful how often this ruse is successful. The keeper may put a hasty question, but he oftener rushes after his man. Mention of stone-heaps reminds me of the fact that they are better "hides" for nets than almost anything else, especially the larger unbroken heaps. We invariably hid our big cumbrous fishing nets beneath them, and the stones were just as invariably true to their trust.
Going back to my earliest poaching days I remember a cruel incident which had a very different ending to what its author intended. A young keeper had made a wager that he would effect my capture within a certain number of days, and my first intimation of this fact was a sickening sight which I discovered in passing down a woodland glade just at dawn on a bright December morning. I heard a groan, and a few yards in front saw a man stretched across the ride. His clothes were covered with hoar frost, he was drenched in blood, and the poor fellow's pale face showed me that of the keeper. He was held fast in a man-trap which had terribly lacerated his lower limbs. He was conscious, but quite exhausted. Although in great agony he suffered me to carry him to a neighbouring hay-rick, from whence we removed him to his cottage. He recovered slowly, and the man-trap which he had set the night before was, I believe, the last ever used in that district.
