Again, it is more difficult to find a lingering ferret in a rat's hole than in a rabbit's burrow; a line-ferret sent in to explore cannot move about in the small rat passages as in the roomy tunnels of rabbits, and so cannot locate the free ferret. To dig for a ferret in a rat's run is always risky; the diameter is so small that the spade may cut through without any warning, and also cut through the ferret. When the spade breaks through the crown of a rabbit's hole, on the floor of which is the ferret, the man with the spade naturally eases his pressure. But the ferret fills the rat-hole to the roof.
There is still another danger in ratting with ferrets; the dogs, unless very well trained, may bring about a tragedy. Even when a dog is ferret-proof the ferret may plunge teeth into the dog, who naturally retaliates. On all these accounts the keeper may prefer to go ratting with an iron bar in place of a ferret.
By using an iron bar instead of ferrets for bolting rats, all kinds of difficulties and delays are prevented; and the keeper is free to go home at any time without having to wait for loitering allies. To strike an iron bar into a rat's hole is to strike terror into the rat's heart. One might probe a rabbit's burrow with a bar for a month, and no rabbit would bolt—indeed, the more one probed the tighter would the rabbit sit. In rabbiting, a bar is used only to find holes and save digging. But thrust a bar anywhere near a rat's subterranean lair, and probably the rat will bolt, as if possessed, at the first time of asking. Such an effect does probing have on rats that they will fly before the crowbar well knowing that enemies await their appearance. Even with a dog at the hole who has grabbed at the rat more than once, the rat will fly before a shrewd thrust. The art of thrusting is to drive the bar into the hole behind the rat, not blocking the way by which it will bolt.
Rats seem to have a deep-rooted terror of anything that probes and prods. Perhaps some of them when their holes are disturbed associate the trouble with pitchforks. For hundreds of years rats have lived in corn-ricks, and at threshing time when the sheaves have been lifted by pitchforks have bolted furiously. The first thrust of the pitchfork into a protecting sheaf puts out the rats, though well aware of the presence of men and dogs. When the iron bar comes crashing into the burrow, perhaps the rats half expect the soil to be uplifted as if it were a sheaf of corn.
SUMMER
A Keeper Chorister
The gamekeeper has a way of putting things to surprising and ingenious uses. Usually he carries a dog-lead concealed somewhere about his person—a yard or two of string attached to a simple spring clip; and this lead serves a hundred purposes apart from restraining dogs. One case we remember well, where a dog-lead saved a situation. The vocal services of a keeper had been impressed for a festival of choirs; but when he arrived, just before the procession was timed to start, it was found that the one cassock which would encircle his figure was so long that he could walk in it only with danger of falling. Of course there was no string anywhere to be found, except in the shape of the dog-lead. The dog-lead saved the day, and the robed procession started off, lustily singing. It chanced that the keeper was one of the two leading choirmen, and when he noticed that his companion was rather headstrong in taking a corner, "Heel, will yer," he was heard to mutter, absent-mindedly, as he flicked his friend with the snap of his dog-lead from a besurpliced arm-hole; "heel, sir, heel."
Velveteens
There was something pleasing about the old familiar name for the gamekeeper—"Velveteens": but it has been dropped almost completely, because no longer appropriate. In the old times all gamekeepers were clad in ample coats of velveteen. To-day, for one in velveteen you may see a hundred in tweeds. And it is only the Cockney who calls the keeper "Velveteens" to his face—thereby putting him on his dignity at the least, if not insulting him. The old-time coat was pleasant to the eye, so long as it was kept unspotted by rain. But its bloom departed after a few minutes' exposure to a generous shower, and no amount of drying or brushing would bring it back. Moreover, the shirt of the man beneath the coat would probably suffer also from the wetting. The best of velveteen was its thorn-resisting qualities. Tweeds resist rain besides the thorns—the thick, heavy, closely-woven tweeds of the neutral brown tint that are now the fashion for keepers' clothes. It is a long time before they can be thoroughly wetted—and the keeper's wife will tell you it is as long before they can be thoroughly dried. They have two drawbacks—if made to fit closely and well they are uncomfortable for shooting until almost worn out; and they are too hot and heavy for summer wear. Employers would be investing profitably if they allowed their keepers, instead of the one suit a year, a summer and a winter suit. Comfort in dress makes a wonderful difference in the keeper's work; hence the keeper's affection for his oldest things and his scorn of appearances. His old breeches and gaiters become part of himself. A keeper who always donned trousers on Sunday invariably wore the old gaiters beneath them so that his legs might feel properly encased.