Many gamekeepers we have known. Looking back down the years we can
summon to view a serried regiment of the servants of sport; large men
and small, rough and gentle, brown-clad men, some in velveteen, others
in rough tweed, most of them in stout leggings, all with the keen
eyes of watchmen, bronzed by the sun, beaten by the weather; good men
and true, every man of them. The best of them are strong, upright,
fearless, full of confidence; men who neither beg favours nor grant
them; set their own standards; keep their own counsels; take no false
oaths, whatever the provocation of the poacher; who, in preserving
game, have no enmity against other living creatures; who are all-round
sportsmen and lovers of fair play. At the end of the long line,
farthest from view yet most distinct, stands an old man with silver
hair, with light blue eyes, and a face kindly, yet sharp as a hawk's,
the keeper who was first to show us how to hold a gun.
Many fine stories this old man would tell, leaning over a gate, gun
in hand, of Master this and Master that, uncles and such-like, even
then old men to a boy's eyes, yet still called, by the older keeper,
by their familiar names. "I mind the time," he would begin, his eyes
twinkling: and then he would ramble off into the history of some wild
affray with gipsies or with poachers, enough to make a boy's hair stand
on end.
One time that often came to his mind was when Master Charles plagued
the life out of him to be taken, at night, through a bedroom window,
by way of a ladder, on a hunt for poachers; and how at last he yielded
to entreaty, though it was as much as his place was worth if Master
Charles's guardian got wind of the affair. So he chose a bright
moon-lit night, when he was tolerably certain that no poachers would
venture forth; whistled beneath Master Charles's window, upraised
a ladder, and got the young gentleman safely to ground, in nothing
more than nightshirt, greatcoat, and bedroom slippers. Off they went
together, and it was the keeper's heart that beat fastest. Arrived in
the Long Walk, what should they see but two poachers with bows and
arrows, shooting the pheasants in their sleep. The keeper's first
idea was to send the young master back to bed; but he was not to be
denied this grand adventure: and with a yell and a bound he was among
the poachers before the keeper could say Jack Robinson. It was a
desperate affair, not only for the poachers, but more particularly for
the gamekeeper; but he still lives to tell the tale, with ever more
wonderful variations.
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