“Styles? who is he?” inquired Harry, quickly.
“Well, he’s the son of old Farmer Styles, and he used to shoot just when and where he liked in the Admiral’s time, and that’s how he fancies he’s got a sort of right, do ye see, Mr ’Enry—that is, Mr. Coverdale, sir.”
“Rabbits are not game, so you can’t touch him on the score of poaching, Harry; but, to come to the point, if he’s on your land without your permission, he’s trespassing, and that’s where you can be down upon him,” interrupted Hazlehurst, sententiously.
“Then I shall have the law o’ my side in pitching into him, I suppose, sir?” inquired Markum eagerly.
“Ho, no, my good fellow; I don’t wish to quarrel with any of my tenantry, about here,” exclaimed Coverdale hastily, “they’ll be breaking pheasants’ eggs, and playing up all sorts of mischief,—no: we must have nothing of that kind—I’ll speak to the young man myself; there’s a quiet way of doing these things, as I must teach you all. Good night; remember eight o’clock tomorrow:” and Markum, looking sheepish and rebuked, quitted the room, to tell the tale in the kitchen with the following reflection appended, “And if that ’are young Styles happens to be as cheeky to master as he is to other folks, it strikes me the quiet dodge won’t pay.”
CHAPTER II.—AFFORDS A SPECIMEN OF HARRY’S “QUIET MANNER” WITH HIS TENANTRY.
By two o’clock next day, Coverdale and Hazlehurst had walked for some six hours, and conjointly taken the lives of seven couple of rabbits, ten unfortunates having fallen victims to the new double-barrel, while Hazlehurst had disposed of the remaining four. A sumptuous luncheon, with unlimited pale ale and brown stout, awaited them at the gamekeeper’s cottage, to which repast they did ample justice.
“I tell you what it is, Harry,” exclaimed Hazlehurst, setting down an empty tumbler, “if I eat any more luncheon, you will have to send me home in a wheelbarrow, for to walk I shall not be able—as it is, I feel like an alderman after a city feast.”