sit 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