As the old man concluded his gruesome story, he rose to his feet and whistled the dogs together. A minute later the line of guns was spreading anew across the moor. ‘Watch for hares,’ was the veteran’s instructions, but, alas! puss is becoming rare with us, and we never saw a scrap of fur. The old keeper likes to have the harriers once a year across the moor, because, he says, as the visit is planned late, the noise scatters the birds, and prevents too much in-breeding. How far his idea is correct, I cannot of course say. The birds rise very slowly on this part of the moor, but they are strong, and your gun has to be deftly and rapidly used when they come.
‘Stop!’ said the old keeper suddenly, as we stood on a rise overlooking a tinkling streamlet. And as he spoke the dog in front flushed a bunch of birds from the outskirts of some heather. I fired rapidly, both barrels, and had the satisfaction of hitting each time. One bird was knocked over and over by the impact, and fell immediately, but the other on stiffening wings sailed away for thirty yards or so. The other members of the family with wild calls whirled out of sight over the next ridge.
‘Quietly,’ said the old man; ‘we must have another shot at them.’ And we had; before we had gone a hundred yards they rose in a bewildered, scattered flight, and, to my delight, down to the heather thumped another brace. These were my last shots that day, though we ranged the moor a couple of hours longer. The total bag averaged three brace per gun—not bad, considering the sparseness of game and the fact that two members of our party had discharged but a single cartridge apiece.
II. Rough the Beagle; or, A Rabbit-shooting Expedition
The morning was dull but clear. Behind us a lonely wayside station, with an overtowering background of mountains; in front a grand piece of rolling country, with a far-away line of blue peaks. It was early October; the march of autumn following on a wet summer had been so slow that as yet hardly a tree was shedding its leaves; the hedgerows were dense and mostly green, and, as we passed from the road, the grass, both permanent and aftermath, was long and tangled. For a mile we walked by field-paths and through sunken lanes, spongy and rutted, damp with the exudations of countless hidden springs. Three of us, two gunsters and a rambler, and a dog. At the end of much seemingly aimless tramping we reached the boundary of the small shooting.
‘Now,’ said the principal to his fellow, ‘you take those fields to the right, while I try around the marshy pasture on this side.’
I put the leash on the dog and followed with caution. Rough was black, white, and tan, and of the rough, genuine beagle type. There was nothing of the harrier or miniature foxhound about him. Also he was a show dog, with a proclivity for not looking his best on the correct occasions, therefore with his perfect shape and colour adding to his master’s store of ‘commended’ certificates.
Our premier gun was a slender, erect man, one who possessed a thorough knowledge of many kinds of outdoor sport, linked with a shrewd faculty for observation. He was a first-class shot. Means and manners of fur and feather by wood and water and lea were as an open book in his sight. Every nook and cranny of the two farms was known to him, and he had already reckoned out the possibilities of our day’s work to a nicety. His companion, though keen on sport, was possessed of ‘days.’ At times he would bring off with ease almost marvellous shots, to fail on the following day in an almost elementary style. He was a well-set-up man and accustomed to work requiring organization and patience. Surely shooting rabbits as they run from feeding-ground to burrow would test this latter.
Down the dewy grass in the shadow of the hedge the principal stepped in silence, his gun ready, watching and listening acutely for the rush of the first rabbit. But it didn’t come at present. Rough walked steadily in the leash, and a moment after was loosed. Away he went, ranging the hedgesides thoroughly, but not a stray rabbit could he find. All four fences of the small pasture were visited. Rough’s tail was indicative of eager anticipation, but his tongue was silent. Down the chief ditch where a patch of ragged-robin grew he passed slowly, carefully. Rabbits had been astir here, but not recently enough to make the scents workable. We turned down a ghyll, a declivity with steep grassy banks, just before the other gun, with a rabbit dangling in his hand, joined us from the other pastures.