On that same year, when the shooting season came round, the young Hardings discovered a scarcity of game in their father’s preserves. The General did not often go gunning himself, and would not have noticed this falling off; neither, perhaps, would Nigel; but Henry, who was passionately fond of field sports, at once perceived that there was a thinner stock of pheasants than on the preceding season. All the more surprising to him, because it was a good year for game generally, and pheasants in particular. The Whibley covers were swarming with them; and they were reported plentiful in the country around.
It became a question whether General Harding’s gamekeeper had properly attended to his trust. No poaching had been reported, except some trifling cases of boys, who had been detected stealing eggs in the hatching season. But this had not occurred on a scale sufficient to account for the scarcity of the game.
Besides, the new gamekeeper, who was reported one of the best, had been provided with a fall set of watchers; and, on the Whibley side, there was a staff not so strong, with Doggy Dick at their head.
While reflecting on this, it occurred to Mr Henry Harding that something might have been done to attract the pheasants across to the Whibley covers. Perhaps a better lay of feed had been there provided for them?
He knew that neither Doggy Dick nor his master owed any good-will towards him or his father; and a trick of this kind would be compatible with the character of the stockbroker.
Still, there was nothing in it—beyond a certain discourtesy; and it only made it necessary that some steps should be taken to create a counter attraction for the game. Patches of buck wheat were sown here and there, and other favourite pheasant’s food was liberally laid through the covers.
On the following season the result was the same, or worse—the strong, whirring wing was sparingly heard among the Harding preserves. Even partridges had become scarce in the Swedes and stubble; while on the Whibley property both were in abundance.
The General’s gamekeeper, when taken to task, admitted that, during the breeding season, he had found several pheasants’ nests rifled of their eggs. He could not account for it. There was no one ever seen in the covers, except occasionally the keepers from the neighbouring estate. But of course they would not do such a thing as steal eggs.
“Indeed,” thought Henry Harding, “I’m not so sure of that. On the contrary, it appears to be the only way to account for our scarcity of game.”
He communicated these thoughts to his father; and Whibley’s keepers were forbidden the range. It was deemed discourteous, and widened the breach between the ci-devant soldier and the retired stockbroker.