ON A PARTRIDGE BEAT 19 
business. Another second, and a great rolling cloud 
of smoke enveloped the figure of the man. Then 
came a bang. Two poachers, perhaps, with one trap, 
I thought. Whoever the man was, he had now got 
clear of the smoke-fog, and was coming towards me. 
Nothing could be better, I thought, and kept my 
cover. The mysterious man turned out to be none 
other than old B. Waiting till he was within a yard 
of me, I asked without any warning, and in the 
gruffest of official tones, what he was up to. ‘I 
b’lieve I’ve killed the old gentleman,’ said old B. 
in an unusually guttural voice, so soon as he 
recovered from the surprise of seeing me. He 
explained his cryptic reply, and went on his way, 
while I went and put things straight. Old B. had 
spotted the black cat in the hedge, and being ‘set- 
up,’ he let drive at it; then, his superstition (luckily 
for me) got the better of his curiosity, and he came 
on without inspecting the cat. It was not till years 
afterwards that he knew the cat was in my trap 
when he shot it. 
It was a mercy that foxes did not worry me in 
this first season of working up a run-down shoot. 
I had to preserve foxes as well as game. Their 
absence probably was due to the same cause as 
that of game—the preceding period of comparative 
anarchy. To dig out a litter of cubs and sell them 
‘for ten shillings each is a far more profitable and 
less risky venture than to poach for a few rabbits, 
2—2 
