"
"Lord! my lady, we ain't come down to that. But he do shoot more than
his share, that's sure an' sartain. Well, my lady, if you please, game
is just like Christians: it will make for sunny spots. Highmore has got
a many of them there, with good cover; so we breeds for him. As for
'Splatchett's,' that don't hurt we, my lady; it is all arable land and
dead hedges, with no bottom; only there's one little tongue of it runs
into North Wood, and planted with larch; and, if you please, my lady,
there is always a kind of coarse grass grows under young larches, and
makes a strong cover for game. So, beat North Wood which way you will,
them artful old cocks will run ahead of ye, or double back into them
larches. And you see Mr. Bassett is not a gentleman, like Sir Charles;
he is always a-mouching about, and the biggest poacher in the parish;
and so he drops on to 'em out of bounds."
"Is there no way of stopping all this, sir?"
"We might station a dozen beaters ahead. They would most likely get
shot; but I don't think as they'd mind that much if you had set your
heart on it, my lady. Dall'd if I would, for one."
"Oh, Mr. Moss! Heaven forbid that any man should be shot for me. No,
not for all the pheasants in the world. I'll try and think of some
other way.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121