The ' Residuum ' goes Fox-hunting. 49 



ting his place to rights.' Pheasant, and hare, and 

 rabbit all are sent helter-skelter anywhere, and take a 

 day or two to settle down again. 



Yet it is not so much the real genuine hunt that 

 he dislikes : it is the loafers it brings together on foot. 

 Roughs from the towns, idle fellows from the villages, 

 cobblers, tinkers, gipsies, the nondescript c residuum,' 

 all congregate in crowds, delighted at the chance of 

 penetrating into the secret recesses of woods only 

 thrown open two or three times a year. It is impos- 

 sible to stay the inroad — the gates are wide open, the 

 rails pulled down, and trespass is but a fiction for the 

 hour. To see these gentry roaming at their ease in 

 his woods is a bitter trial to the keeper, who grinds his 

 teeth in silence as they pass him with a grin, perfectly 

 aware of and enjoying his spleen. Somehow or other 

 these fellows always manage to get in the way just 

 where the fox was on the point of breaking cover ; if 

 he makes a clear start and heads for the meadows, 

 before he has passed the first field a ragged jacket 

 appears over the hedge, and then the language of the 

 huntsman is not always good to listen to. 



The work of rearing the young broods of pheasants 

 is a trying and tedious one. The keeper has his own 

 specific treatment, in which he has implicit faith, and 

 laughs to scorn the pheasant-meals and feeding-stuffs 



E 



