before it dawned upon me that an error was being made, and so confided my
suspicions to one of the station officials; he nearly had a fit when he discovered his
mistake. The Prince had been quietly seated waiting patiently in the carriage for
half an hour, but forgave me when he heard the story, which was received with
roars of laughter.
Just before lunch we were lined on a broad ride. On my right was C., a Master
of Hounds. He was an excellent fellow, very short-sighted, wore spectacles,
but notwithstanding was a fair shot. Rabbits and hares were popping about in
dozens in front, when a Fox passed immediately before me, moving towards my
neighbour. The unlucky beast was still within my view when C. fired, and the
Fox dropped dead. I ran towards my unfortunate friend, saying, ‘ Do you
know what you have done? You’ve killed a F o x !’ ‘ Good heavens, is it
possible? I thought it was a hare,’ he exclaimed in anguish, and we ran into
the wood together. Poor C. seemed overcome and unable to think, so I seized
the Fox, ran to the end of the ride, jumped into the covert side ditch, and hid
it in the brambles. So far all seemed well, for no other person had noticed the
incident except the Prince, who was in fits of laughter. However, he promised
secrecy, so things were not so bad after all. The morning’s shooting was finished,
so lunch was taken in the wood at that spot, and all passed off pleasantly. C. too
was beginning to recover from the horrors of the last beat when an abominable
retriever, whom no one had noticed sniffing about, suddenly appeared, tearing
out of the ditch the carcase of the murdered Fox. It was an awful moment,
when even fibs of the most flagrant order were perhaps permissible. Such
thoughts had just entered my mind, when C. like a noble fellow spoke up and
made a clean breast of his sin, was humbled but forgiven after an inordinate
amount of chaff. Of course the story got about, and he doubtless suffers for it
to this day.
Not the least curious episode of this day’s shooting was the mistake of the
head keeper, who made the common fault of congealing all his pheasants into the
final bouquet when darkness had already set in. We killed about two hundred
pheasants at this last stand. ‘ I will pick them all up early to-morrow,’ said this
inexperienced individual, anxious to finish and pay off his beaters. But before
that time arrived two of the beaters who had heard the remark had decided to
act on their own account. They came in the night with a cart, lifted all the
fallen game, and doubtless declared a handsome dividend in Cambridge market on
the following day. They were never caught.
VOL. 1. F F