THE 'RESIDUUM' GOES FOX-HUNTING. 51 



sward of the winding ' drives,' breaking down the fences, 

 much as the artist views the sacrilegious broom ' putting 

 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 ' residuum,' all 

 congregate in crowds, delighted at the chance of penetrat- 

 ing into the secret recesses of woods only thrown open 

 two or three times a year. It is impossible 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 



