(_With an Excursus on Beaters._)
Of the many varieties of keeper, I propose, at present, to consider only
the average sort of keeper, who looks after a shooting, comprising
partridges, pheasants, hares, and rabbits, in an English county. Now it is
to be observed that your ordinary keeper is not a conversational animal. He
has, as a rule, too much to do to waste time in unnecessary talk. To begin
with, he has to control his staff, the men and boys who walk in line with
you through the root-fields, or beat the coverts for pheasants. That might
seem at first sight to be an easy business, but it is actually one of the
most difficult in the world. For thorough perverse stupidity, you will not
easily match the autochthonous beater. Watch him as he trudges along, slow,
expressionless, clod-resembling, lethargic, and say how you would like to
be the chief of such an army. He is always getting out of line, pressing
forward unduly, or hanging back too much, and the loud voice of the keeper
makes the woods resound with remonstrance, entreaty, and blame, hurled at
his bovine head. After lunch, it is true, the beater wakes up for a little.
Then shall you hear WILLIAM exchanging confidences from one end of the line
to the other with JARGE, while the startled pheasant rises too soon and
goes back, to the despair of the keeper and the guns. Then, too, are heard
the shouts of laughter which greet the appearance of a rabbit, and the air
is thick with the sticks that the joyous, beery beaters fling at the
scurrying form of their hereditary foe. It is marvellous to note with what
a venomous hatred the beater regards the bunny. Pheasant or partridge he is
careless of; even the hare is, in comparison, a thing of nought, but let
him once set eyes on a rabbit, and his whole being seems to change. His eye
absolutely flashes, his chest heaves with excitement beneath the ancient
piece of sacking that protects his form from thorns. If the rabbit falls to
the shot, he yells with exultation; if it be missed, an expression of
morose and gloomy disappointment settles on his face, as who should say,
"Things are played out; the world is worthless!"
[Illustration: On their Beat.]
All these characteristics are the keeper's despair; though, to be sure, he
has staunch lieutenants in his under-keepers; and towards the end of the
day he can always count on two sympathising allies in the postman and the
policeman. These two never fail to come out in the afternoon to join the
beaters. It is amusing to watch the demeanour of the beaters in the
policeman's presence. Some of them, it is possible, have been immeshed by
the law, and have made the constable's acquaintance in his professional
capacity. Others are conscious of undiscovered peccadilloes, or they feel
that on some future day they may be led to transgress rules, of which the
policeman is the sturdy embodiment. None of them is, therefore, quite at
his best in the policeman's presence. Their attitude may be described
as one of uneasy familiarity, bursting here and there into jocular
nervousness, but never quite attaining the rollicking point. You may
sometimes take advantage of this feeling to let off a joke on a beater.
Select a stout, plethoric one, and say to him, "Mind you keep your eye on
the policeman, or he'll poach a rabbit before you can say knife." This
simple inversion of probabilities and positions is quite certain to "go." A
hesitating smile will first creep into the corners of the beater's eye.
After an interval spent in grappling with the jest, he will become purple,
and finally he will explode.
During the rest of the day you will hear him repeating your little
pleasantry either to himself or to his companions. You can keep it up by
saying now and then, "How many did the constable pocket that last beat?"
(_Shouts of laughter._) Thus shall your reputation as a humorist be
established amongst the beating fraternity--("that 'ere Muster JACKSON, 'e
do make a chap laugh, that 'e do," is the formula)--and if you revisit the
same shooting next year, a beater is sure to take an opportunity of saying
to you, with a grin on his face, "Policeman's a comin' out to-day, Sir; I'm
a goin' to hev my eye tight on 'im, so as 'e don't pocket no rabbits," to
which you will reply, "That's right, GEORGE, you stick to it, and you'll be
a policeman yourself some day," at which impossible anticipation there will
be fresh explosions of mirth. So easily pleased is the rustic mind, so
tenacious is the rustic memory.
But the head-keeper recks not of these things. All the anxiety of the day
is his. If, for one reason or another, he fails to show as good a head of
game as had been expected, he knows his master will be displeased. If the
beaters prove intractable, the birds go wrong, but the burden of the host's
disappointment falls on the keeper's shoulders. His are all the petty
worries, the little failures of the day. The keeper is, therefore, not
given to conversation. How should he be, with all these responsibilities
weighing upon him? Few of those who shoot realise what the keeper has gone
through to provide the sport. Inclement nights spent in the open, untiring
vigilance by day and by night, a constant and patient care of his birds
during the worst seasons, short hours of sleep, and long hours of tramping,
such is the keeper's life. And, after all, what a fine fellow is a good
keeper. In what other race of men can you find in a higher degree the best
and manliest qualities, unswerving fidelity, dauntless courage, unflinching
endurance of hardship and fatigue, and an upright honesty of conduct and
demeanour? I protest that if ever the sport of game-shooting is attacked,
one powerful argument in its favour may be found in the fact that it
produces such men as these, and fosters their staunch virtues. Think well
of all this, my young friend, and do not vex the harassed keeper with idle
and frivolous remarks. But you may permit yourself to say to him, during
the day, "That's a nice dog of yours; works capitally."
"Yes, Sir," the keeper will say, "he's not a bad 'un for a young 'un.
Plenty of good blood in him. His mother's old _Dido_. I've had to leave her
at home to-day, because she's got a sore foot; but her nose is something
wonderful."
"Did you have much trouble breaking him?"
"Lor' bless you, Sir, no. He took to it like a duck to the water. Nothing
comes amiss to him. You stand there, Sir, and you'll get some nice birds
over you. They mostly breaks this way."
That kind of conversation establishes good relations, always an important
thing. Or you may hint to him that he knows his business better than the
host, as thus:--
"I must have been in the wrong place that last beat. Not a single bird came
near me."
"Of course you were, Sir. I knew how it would be. I wanted you fifty yards
higher up, but Mr. CHALMERS, he would have you here. Lor, I've never known
birds break here. Now then, you boys, stop that chattering, or I sends you
all home. Seem to think they're out here to enjoy theirselves, instead of
doing as I tells 'em. Come, rattle your sticks!"
Thus are the little beaters and the stops admonished.
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