Many fine stories this old man would tell, leaning over a gate, gun in hand, of Master this and Master that, uncles and such-like, even then old men to a boy's eyes, yet still called, by the older keeper, by their familiar names. "I mind the time," he would begin, his eyes twinkling: and then he would ramble off into the history of some wild affray with gipsies or with poachers, enough to make a boy's hair stand on end.
One time that often came to his mind was when Master Charles plagued the life out of him to be taken, at night, through a bedroom window, by way of a ladder, on a hunt for poachers; and how at last he yielded to entreaty, though it was as much as his place was worth if Master Charles's guardian got wind of the affair. So he chose a bright moon-lit night, when he was tolerably certain that no poachers would venture forth; whistled beneath Master Charles's window, upraised a ladder, and got the young gentleman safely to ground, in nothing more than nightshirt, greatcoat, and bedroom slippers. Off they went together, and it was the keeper's heart that beat fastest. Arrived in the Long Walk, what should they see but two poachers with bows and arrows, shooting the pheasants in their sleep. The keeper's first idea was to send the young master back to bed; but he was not to be denied this grand adventure: and with a yell and a bound he was among the poachers before the keeper could say Jack Robinson. It was a desperate affair, not only for the poachers, but more particularly for the gamekeeper; but he still lives to tell the tale, with ever more wonderful variations.
The Converted Shepherd
A favourite story of another old friend tells how he found the cure for a notorious poacher. It was in the days before the Ground Game Act, and a farmer had complained, as well he might, of rabbits that had cleared every blade of a field of oats, and were beginning to attack some wheat in the next field. The keeper set many traps and wires. His cottage was a long way from the wheat-field: but the cottage of the poacher, a shepherd, was near at hand. Knowing that the shepherd would in any case keep an eye on the captured rabbits, the keeper went to him, and frankly invited him to remove all those caught overnight, and keep them safe until he should come himself in the morning. The keeper, of course, could tell where a rabbit had been caught; and no doubt the shepherd knew this, for he delivered up each night's catch to a rabbit. And he confessed, at the end of a week's campaign, that the confidence placed in him so unexpectedly had broken his heart of its love of poaching for ever.
A Final Story
All keepers are shamed when sportsmen go home from their preserves with empty bags. To have in a party a shooter "who never shot noth'n' all day long" reacts on the keeper's fame. We noticed that a crafty keeper friend would always scheme to place an old colonel well forward of the line of guns; and as the colonel was never seen to add to the bag, we asked for an explanation. "Well, ye see, it be like this 'ere," came the answer. "I knows as 'e can't shoot, and 'e knows it; but I knows and 'e knows that if 'e be put forward 'e be likely to get a shot at a rabbit what's stopped to think. And 'e knows that I knows that 'e will pay somethink 'andsome when 'e can go 'ome an' tell 'is missus as 'ow 'e ain't bin an' disgraced 'isself agin. So I puts 'im forward; and every time 'e shoots a rabbit what's stopped to think, it reminds 'e of I."