through the town. However, with the aid of another boy, I got them next day
to one Colman, a local birdstuffer, and in my youthful days they were counted
amongst my most valued trophies of the chase.
‘ There are, of course,’ says Sir A. Pease,1 speaking of the chase, ‘ the fortunes
of war—a lucky engagement, a wrong turn on the part of the defender, a
successful trench quickly cutting off his retreat—which may deliver him unexpectedly
into your hands; or the enemy may outwit you altogether, conducting a masterful
retreat, with gallant sorties on the dogs, and by continually changing his front
drive you to abandon works, trenches, and operations which have cost great labour
and time; thus you may be left with a tired and wounded pack of terriers,
exhausted sappers, and the Badger, having barricaded his retreat with soil, stones,
and sand, is lost. The war thus made is an equal one: you attack him on his
own ground in his fortress, where he is acquainted with every passage, gallery,
and casement; he is armed to the teeth and armour-plated, and can drive a road
forward, downward, or upward with extraordinary rapidity. It is true you may
have many terriers, but he has an advantage over your forces. Only one of your
dogs can engage at a time, and the Badger has the advantage of weight, size,
knowledge of the ground, and familiarity with the dark; in fact, in every respect
except those of courage and endurance, which in some terriers may equal his own.’
Hardly anything could be better than S ir Alfred Pease’s description of a
spirited engagement, which I quote here:
‘ • • • A Badger when attacked generally bites upwards, i.e. he lowers his
head and turns the back of his head downwards. Nothing makes the heart beat
faster than, with head to the earth, to hear the din of this subterranean warfare
carried along the dark galleries to the day. You have sent in one of your best
terriers: he has tried by cajolery and caresses, by straining at his chain, to be
allowed the honourable distinction of first blood. You have dispatched him with
your blessing, and he has quickly and silently started on his journey into the
unknown. You listen to him forcing his passage, drawing himself round corners,
scratching away some accumulation or fall from the roof, and hear his eager
panting as he winds his foe. Presently you hear a low sharp bark, then another,
then two or three more, next a bumping, thumping noise; it is the Badger who
has waited to see who the intruder is, and rousing himself is retreating. The
1 I must apologise for quoting my friend Sir Alfred so freely, but in excuse I must plead that I have done so with his
permission, and that it is hardly possible to write anything new bearing on the chase of the Badger which has not already
been effectively treated by that accurate observer and good sportsman.
terrier barks no more, but you can hear the thump, thump of the Badger, followed
by the efforts of the dog to keep up with him. They are now a long way in, and
you can plainly hear the bark again. Soon the fight draws nearer, and the
terrier’s cry comes to your ear with regularity and clearness ; but the Badger is
only disputing the w a y ; he has not yet been driven with his back against the
wall. The terrier redoubles his activity; you can hear him feinting at the Badger,
sharp give-and-take, but no foolish attempt to take hold. After ten minutes the
Badger again retreats, probably up the hill, and you have to listen on the surface
or at the higher holes of the set till you can hear them again. At last you catch
a faint sound: they are still moving, now stationary, now further o n ; then
they seem to stay in one place. There is the steady yap, yap, yap of the dog
just distinguishable to the ear.
‘ Quick, every hand to work. A trench six feet deep, or deeper if necessary,
must be cut across the set to cut off the Badger from the passages. With pick,
spade, and shovel, the work goes on, while someone listens to know whether the
scene of battles moves. I f it does, the Badger may have found a side gallery
and gone far enough, or he may have charged the dog. He may have passed
by a different road beneath your feet in the trench, but if the terrier has succeeded
in keeping him face to face, and engaged, yet not driving him so hard as to make
him charge, you may be successful in an hour or two, and find that your cutting
intersects the passage in which the Badger and the terrier are engaged. I f the
Badger suspects you are cutting off his only means of escape, he will charge and
fight, and the terrier will sometimes be unable to back fast enough; then there
will be a meeting of teeth and jaws, the Badger holding the dog through the
head, jaw, or nose. The dog’s smothered cries of anger and pain make you strain
every nerve to get to his relief.
‘ When the Badger at last leaves go, the terrier’s turn comes, and now with
blood up, he drives back the Badger to his end of the hole with every determination
to keep him there. After two or three turns like this, if the dog has been in an
hour or two, he will probably come out for a breath of air for a moment. He
should be immediately taken, fastened up, watered, and kept in reserve for future
contingencies, and the best terrier for sticking up be sent in with the utmost haste.
I f a minute has been spent in doing this, every moment will have been used by
the Badger in barricading the passage against the dog and burying himself. This
Once accomplished, you may as well whistle for your Badger as continue digging,
for he may have got down into some other gallery, or have buried himself so