HARES AND RABBITS 143 
I have had a lot of fun, not necessarily at the 
expense of rabbits, but of the people associated with 
me in their pursuit. If you would meet people 
shooting without a licence in their pocket, go to a 
rabbit shoot. There is a story of a nobleman who, 
with his two unlicensed sons, was trying to shoot 
rabbits, when the local constable put in an appear- 
ance. The keeper intimated the constable’s arrival 
to his master (who, besides being a nobleman, was 
a magistrate). The nobleman said: ‘Oh—er—give 
the man a couple of rabbits, and tell him to go.’ 
‘Very good, m'lord,’ the keeper answered, ‘but we 
ain’t shot none.’ 
A would-be shooter of rabbits was complaining to 
me that a rabbit he had killed, dead, had not been 
picked up. Naturally my sympathy was aroused, 
and I asked for details before making inquiry among 
the beaters. ‘He came tearing along at forty miles 
an hour,’ the shooter explained, ‘and I let him have 
it at about eight yards and a half. And I’m sure 
he’s dead, because I shot his front foot right off.’ 
I told him I hoped we should find the rabbit, and 
perhaps its front foot. Another man gave me two 
incidents on the same day. I heard afterwards that 
he was a commercial traveller. At any rate, he 
wore a navy blue Chesterfield top-coat (with a lovely 
velvet collar) and a bowler, and his weapon appeared 
to be of the presentation type. I found myself 
posted in a ride on this man’s right. Apart from 
