A man of grumbles, equal to the farmers, yet the gamekeeper is
prepared to admit that a late autumn brings him one blessing. The
leaves so screen his roosting pheasants that there is little fear
of night-shooting in his coverts. Accordingly, he sleeps peacefully
during many hours which he would have to devote to watching in a wet
early season. Deep in his heart, all the same, he has a certain liking
for the hours passed in watching over his birds at night. They bring
him rheumatism; but also an excitement that adds much to the savour
of existence. Not to know from moment to moment when his head may be
smashed in is a stimulating change from dealing with small game whose
worst powers of resistance are limited to a dig from the spurs of a
winged cock, or a scratch from the claws of a netted rabbit.
* * * * *