Brackley is a good fellow, but I loathe him.
How would you like it if you were tied to work and every now and then a
man came up to you in your club and said, "Old man, do come away with
me to the Pyrenees and shoot jummel," or "Can't you spare a month, old
fellow, to come stalking ibex in Montenegro with me?" or "Look here,
you're just the chap I want to run over to Alaska with me for a pot at
the grizzlies"?
Just a fortnight ago Brackley came and told me of a delightful rough
shooting he had rented in an obscure corner of Ireland. According to
him it was a congested snipe area. You could not see the pools for
wild-duck. The honking of wild-geese kept one awake at night. The
drawback to the estate was that you were always tripping over hares.
"You won't be safe there," I said to Brackley.
"I'm safe anywhere," said Brackley. "Work it on system. In Arabia send
the mullah a bottle of brandy. On the Continent stand the local mayor a
bottle of wine. In Ireland ask the priest up to drink whiskey with you
in the evening. So long as the authorities have their thirst relieved
there's never trouble. Now just come for a fortnight. There'll be crowds
of snipe. I'm told there are woodcock too."