This was not our last interview with this gentleman, but on the second occasion our intentions were innocent; we were walking through this same plantation, without guns, or any notion of game, when we espied a hare lying dead under a tree; on closer inspection it proved to be caught in a wire; we held an inquest on the body, and the unanimous opinion being that a post-mortem examination was necessary, and that that would more conveniently be entered upon at home, it was forthwith tucked up in one of our gowns; but, lo! scarcely had this been accomplished when, in the tree immediately above that under which the corpse had been lying, we heard a cracking of twigs, and before we could fully realise the state of things, our friend without a palate lay on his back in the midst of us. As he had heard all the particulars of the inquest, he must have known that we were not the murderers, but on our representing this to him, he very sagely remarked, that he had been up in the tree for six hours, and that he was quite contented with having secured us, and had not the slightest intention of mounting guard again for the chance of discovering the real offenders. We had a long argument with him, but he failed to see the thing in the proper light, and we with some difficulty succeeded in compromising the affair for a half-sovereign.
Popjoy was not contented with a little poaching in the shooting line, but used also occasionally to indulge his fishing propensities without going through the preliminary form of requesting leave. He one day had recourse to a stratagem to indulge in his favourite pursuit that for brazen impudence beats anything of the kind I ever heard of. He drove over to Avington, and commenced fishing in the Duke of Buckingham’s best water. Of course he hadn’t been there half an hour before the keeper appeared, saying—
“You mustn’t fish here, sir.”
Popjoy. “I have the Duke’s leave; please stand back, you disturb the fish.”
K. “What’s your name.”
P. “Popjoy.”
K. “Don’t know that name, and you must be off.”
“Wont you believe the Duke’s own handwriting,” rejoined the undaunted Popjoy, handing him a letter received that morning from his affectionate mamma.
The keeper twisted the mysterious document about in his hands for a little, and returned it to the owner with a grunt. Popjoy then proceeded to extract from him all possible information about flies, the haunts of the fish, &c., &c., and had a particularly good day’s sport.
Another great resource on Leave-out days was a row on the river in one of Etheridge’s boats,—they were rather sorry tubs, but we managed to extract amusement out of them; if, in this particular line, “militavi non sine gloriâ,” I can’t say that my Winchester education had much to do with it. However, the most consummate master of the art of rowing that ever adorned Oxford always preferred to take raw hands and teach them to pull, to Eton or Westminster men, who came up to Oxford fancying themselves perfect already; and I am proud to say that among the immortal Seven of Henley there were two Wykehamists.