VERMIN AND TRAPPING 87 
her, with a view to a photograph, I saw before I 
got near the nest that something was radically 
wrong. ‘Stoats,’ I said to myself, and had a look 
round, They had not interfered with the eggs, 
which, of course, were spoiled. I could see where 
the soft grass had been pressed aside in furrows as 
the spoilers had passed on their tour of destruction. 
Following in their wake, I saw where they had 
spread out as if scenting prey, or had paused to 
enjoy a gambol through a hollow stump or round 
a tree-trunk. Their direction told me where they 
would be certain to take lodging—in a large solitary 
bavin-pile on the edge of a broad ride. 
Monday morning came, and two indignant keepers 
who had set great store on the nest of that silvery- 
white pheasant went forth, each with a gun and a 
pocketful of cartridges, and accompanied by the best 
little terrier that ever lived. We went to the scene 
of the ruined nest. We did not weep over it, but, 
having kindled our anger afresh, decided to track 
down those stoats, even to the extent of trespassing 
in other people's woods. We knew well enough, 
we thought, where to go, so that we should have 
come upon them straightway—in the bavin-pile by 
the broad ride. Perhaps there is something of the 
cat-and-mouse business about keepers. So we bored 
our way through the underwood, till, following those 
furrowy tracks in the soft grass, we came to the 
pile, and said to each other simultaneously. ‘ Here 
