“Canʼt stop to make you guess. A woodcock, sir; a woodcock”.
“A woodcock so early? Nonsense, man; it must have been a hawk or a night–jar”.
“Think I donʼt know a woodcock yet? And Iʼll tell you who saw it, too. Glorious old Mark Stote; his eyes are as sharp as ever. We marked him down to a T, sir, just beyond the hoar–witheys at the head of Coffin Wood; and I should have been after him two hours ago if it had not been for this rumpus. I meant to have had such a laugh at you, for I would not have told you a word of it; but now you shall go snacks in him. Even the governor does not know it”.
“Fancy killing a woodcock in the first week of October”! said Cradock, with equal excitement; “why, theyʼll put us in the paper, Viley”.
“Not unless you look sharp. Heʼs sure to be off at dusk. Heʼs a traveller, as Mark Stote said: sailed on from the Wight, most likely, last night; heʼll be off for Dorset, this evening. Run for your gun, Crad, your pet Purday; Iʼll meet you here with my Lancaster in just two minutes’ time. Donʼt say a word to a soul. Mind, weʼll go quite alone”.
“Yes; but you bring your little Wena, and Iʼll take my Caldo, and work him as close as possible. I promised him a run this afternoon”.
Away they ran, out of different doors, to get their guns and accoutre themselves; while the poor tired woodcock sitting on one leg, under a holly bush, was drawing up the thin quivering coverlet over his great black eyes.
Cradock came back to the main hall first, with his gun on his arm, and his shot–belt across him, his broad chest shown by the shooting–jacket, and the light of hope and enterprise in his clear strong glance. Before you could have counted ten, Clayton was there to meet him; and none but a very ill–natured man could have helped admiring the pair of them. Honest, affectionate, simple fellows, true West Saxons as could be seen, of the same height and figure as nearly as could be, each with the pure bright Nowell complexion, and the straightforward Nowell gaze. The wide forehead, pointed chin, arched eyebrows, and delicate mouth of each boy resembled the otherʼs exactly, as two slices cut from one fern–root. Nevertheless, the expression—if I may say it without affectation, the mind—of the face was different. Clayton, too, was beginning to nurse a very short moustache, a silky bright brown tasselet; while Cradock exulted rationally in a narrow fringe of young whiskers. And Vileyʼs head was borne slightly on one side, Cradockʼs almost imperceptibly on the other.
With a race to get to the door first, the twins went out together, and their merry laugh rang round the hall, and leaped along the passages. That hall shall not hear such a laugh, nor the passages repeat it, for many a winter night, I fear, unless the dead bear chorus.
The moment they got to the kennel, which they did by a way of their own, avoiding all grooms and young lumbermen, fourteen dogs, of different races and a dozen languages, thundered, yelled, and yelped at the guns, some leaping madly and cracking their staples, some sitting up and begging dearly, with the muscles of their chest all quivering, some drawing along on their stomachs, as if they were thoroughly callous, and yawning for a bit of activity; but each in his several way entreating to be the chosen one, each protesting that he was truly the best dog for the purpose—whatever that might be—and swearing stoutly that he would “down–charge” without a hand being lifted, never run in upon any temptation, never bolt after a hare. All the while Caldo sat grimly apart; having trust in human nature, he knew that merit must make its way, and needed no self–assertion. As his master came to him he stood upon his hind–legs calmly, balanced by the chain–stretch, and bent his forearms as a mermaid or a kangaroo does. Then, suddenly, Cradock Nowell dropped the butt of his gun on his boot, and said, with his face quite altered: