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Roy Glashan's Library
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Headpiece from Chums, 2 September 1916
IT was on a bright Monday morning in late October that Kit Godwin, Squire Corynton's youthful keeper, met his master near the drive-gate of the big house.
"Ah, Godwin," said the squire. "I am glad I met you. I have just sent a message down to say that I wanted to see you."
"And I was just coming up to see you, sir," answered Kit rather gravely.
"What! Nothing wrong, I hope?"
"No, sir. Not yet, at any rate. But have you heard that a gang was in the Lyne Court coverts last night, and got away with a cart-load of pheasants?"
The squire's face went very grave.
"Good heavens! Godwin, you don't mean it! No, I have heard nothing of it. What an abominable business! Did they catch any of them?"
"No, sir. They got clean away. It is said that it was Garbett's gang from Newton."
"The scoundrels!" exclaimed the squire angrily. "Upon my soul, this is simply detestable! To take advantage of a time like this when employers are so miserably short-handed is a most scandalous thing.
"Well, Godwin," he continued, "all I can say is that you will have to exercise the greatest care. I had sent for you to tell you that we intend to shoot on Wednesday. I am going up to town to-day to meet Captain Jack Corynton, who is coming home on ten. days' leave from France. We hope to be back to-morrow evening and to get a good day on Wednesday."
"Will it be the partridges, sir, or the pheasants?" questioned Kit.
"The pheasants. That will be easier than tramping the stubbles all day."
"Very good, sir. I'm glad it will be the pheasants."
"Why so?"
Kit laughed. "Well, sir, they've been a bit of an anxiety to me. They're too tame. That's the fact. Once they've been shot at they won't be quite such easy game for fellows like Garbett."
The squire did not smile.
"I see, you think that Garbett's gang may make an attempt upon our coverts. I trust, Godwin, that you will be very careful to keep them at a distance. It would be a most serious disappointment to me if we failed to find good sport for my son, and the more so, as all the game is needed for the Taviton Red Cross Hospital."
"I will do my best, sir," Kit replied quietly. "But I tell you plainly, sir, that I should like to have some help. It's a long beat for one to cover in a night, and if poachers got into Shorthouse Spinney, for instance, while I was back in Helen's Wood, they might take every bird in the place before I knew it."
Mr. Corynton nodded. "That is quite true, Godwin. I am aware that the work is far too much for one man, let alone for a boy like you. I will tell Bryce, the chauffeur, to help you to-night and to-morrow night. He is elderly, but he will no doubt be useful."
"Thank you, sir," said Kit gratefully. "He will be very useful indeed. Between us we ought to be able to look after the birds."
"I trust you will. I trust so, indeed," replied the squire, and, with a nod, hurried off at a sharp pace in the direction of the house.
Bryce, as the squire had said, was elderly, and owing to being rather rheumatic could not move fast. Still, he was a decent sort and a well-plucked one, so Kit felt a good deal relieved.
He had been really anxious about his pheasants, and the news from Lyne Court had made him more than ever uneasy. Garbett was no ordinary sporting poacher, but a game stealer on a big and brutal scale. He and his gang—perhaps half a dozen men in all—would swoop down on a covert and, by shooting the roosting birds, absolutely clear out the whole head of pheasants within a couple of hours. It was notorious, too, that they did not spare any keeper who tried to interfere. There was Henrick, for instance, Lord Asherton's keeper, who would limp for life as a result of an encounter with these ruffians.
Later that day Kit was making his usual round when, close to Shorthouse Spinney he caught sight of a man walking quietly along through the undergrowth. Kit quickened his pace, and, as he came up, saw that the stranger was a rather smart-looking man of about thirty, got up in a suit of sporting tweeds. He wore gaiters and a check cap.
He turned as he heard Kit's footsteps, showing a keen, rather sharp-featured face, with deep-set eyes and hair of a reddish hue.
"This is private ground, sir," said Kit quietly. "You are trespassing."
"It's the Cleave property, isn't it?" questioned the other with an air of slight surprise. "Yes, sir. This is Cleave ground."
"Oh, then, it's all right. I am Captain Dalton."
"That doesn't tell me anything, sir," replied Kit respectfully.
"What! Didn't the squire mention me? I am a friend of Captain Jack, and I am shooting with him and the squire on Wednesday."
"Oh, I see, sir. Then you are staying at Cleave?"
"No, I am putting up at the Curlew until the squire returns from town. But, under the circumstances, I thought there could be no harm in walking over the ground.
"I am not poaching," he added with a laugh. "You can search me, if you like."
Kit smiled back.
"That's all right, sir. You can go where you like, only please don't walk through the Spinney. I don't want the birds disturbed."
"Very well, I won't. But, you see, keeper, it's a bit dull putting in two days' loafing. I should not have come down so early had I known that Captain Corynton would not be here before to-morrow. Is there any sport one could get without disturbing the coverts?"
"You could shoot some rabbits, sir, if you liked."
"I bar rabbit shooting," returned the other a little impatiently. "Brooker, the landlord at the Curlew, told me that there was some fowling to be had on a mere near here. Can you put me on to that to-night?"
Kit hesitated. "There are duck on Thorndon Mere, sir, but I'm afraid I can't help in the matter. I shall be very busy to-night and to-morrow night."
"But not until after dark, I suppose? Couldn't you come round about five and show me the ground, and where to stand for the flighting? Tell you what, I'll send over a trap for you so as to save your walking. You can have some supper at the Curlew and I'll put you back in plenty of time for your night-watching.
"Come, now," he added. "Can't you manage that?"
Kit thought a moment. This would cut him out of the couple of hours' sleep which he had hoped to get before starting on his night rounds. Still, Captain Dalton was a friend of the squire, and he was anxious to oblige him.
"Very well, sir," he said at last. "I'll do that."
"Thanks very much," answered the other. "You shan't regret it. And now I must not be keeping you; but perhaps I may walk with you a little way. I have nothing else to do."
"Certainly, sir," said Kit, and Dalton fell into step alongside.
He seemed immensely interested in game preserving, and asked an amazing number of questions. He walked more than a mile with Kit, not leaving him until they reached the high road outside the drive gates of the big house.
"Be ready at half-past four," were Dalton's last words. "I'll send the dogcart from the inn."
Kit watched him walk briskly off in the direction of the Curlew, then himself went up to the Hall. He wanted to see Bryce and make arrangements for the night with the chauffeur.
He found Bryce, who, before the days of cars, had been the squire's coachman, in the garage, and settled with him that he was to watch Helen's Wood, which was nearer to the house than Shorthouse Spinney. If anything suspicious were seen he was to fire four shots in quick succession.
"Dang them fellows from Newton!" growled Bryce. "I'll get my death o' rheumatism out in them damp woods. I tell you, young Godwin, if I sees them, I'll likely fire them shots at their legs. I'm too old for rough-and-tumble work."
Kit grinned. He knew that Bryce, in spite of his years, was as plucky as they make them, and that he would put up as good a fight as most men half his age.
"We've got to keep those birds safe for Captain Jack," he said, "And we'll do it in spite of Garbett. By the by, I've just been talking to a gentleman who is a friend of Captain Jack, and is going to shoot on Wednesday."
"Who's he?" asked Bryce.
"Captain Dalton, his name is."
"Never heard of him," said Bryce bluntly. "There's a gent coming down with the squire to-morrow, but I understood his name was Houston."
Kit frowned.
"That's funny," he muttered.
"Who is the chap?" asked Bryce suspiciously. "He wasn't one of Garbett's lot, I suppose?"
"Bless you, no!" said Kit hastily. "A pleasant-spoken gentleman as you'd wish to meet. He's staying at the Curlew."
"Well, you keep your eyes skinned, young Godwin," warned Bryce. "There's queer fish around these days, and some as would puzzle old Nick to place rightly."
As he walked home these words of Bryce stuck in Kit's head. He found himself considering Captain Dalton very carefully. Was it possible that he was not what he represented himself to be? Bryce, at any rate, had never heard of him before, and if he had, as he said, come down to shoot with the squire, it was rather odd that he should come when Mr. Corynton was away, and that he should stay at the Curlew. And the squire, too, he had not mentioned him.
Kit's suspicions thickened as he remembered how many questions the self-styled Captain Dalton had asked, and by the time that he reached home he had almost convinced himself that the man was nothing but a spy of Garbett's.
That plan of his for duck shooting—might it not be merely a scheme for getting him out of the way for the night, or part of the night? Thorndon Mere was nearly five miles off. Supposing that no trap was ready to take him back, he would not be able to cover the distance, afoot, in less than an hour and a half.
By this time Kit had fully made up his mind that he was not going to Thorndon at all. Yet this decision made things awkward, for there was always the possibility that he might be mistaken, and that Dalton was really what he represented himself to be.
Then Kit had a happy thought. Why not send Billy, his younger brother? Billy would be back about five from his work at the village shop, and the boy could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. Yes, that would be the best plan, and he heaved a sigh of relief at this solution of his difficulty.
He said nothing of his plans to his mother, but after attending to the ferrets, dogs, and chickens, went in and had his tea. He was just finishing when Billy arrived. Kit signed to him to come outside, and at once told him the whole story.
Billy nodded gravely, and for a moment or two considered the matter in silence.
"All right, Kit," he said presently. "I'll go. I'll tell the chap you were too busy to come. It'll be all right."
"You'll watch out, Billy," said Kit rather anxiously. "Don't let them try any monkey tricks on you."
"I'll attend to that," said Billy curtly. "And if there's anything wrong I'll come right back and let you know.
"And you'd better get a nap," he added. "Won't be much sleep for you to-night."
Kit agreed, and went straight upstairs and, lay down on his bed. Though Billy was only fourteen he had a good head on his shoulders, and Kit had little anxiety on his score. Just as he dozed off he heard the trap drive up, and then a minute later the sound of wheels as it went off again.
AT half-past seven Mrs. Godwin woke Kit, and he put on his boots, took his gun, his electric torch, and put a hunk of cake in his pocket. Then he started straight off towards Helen's Wood. Billy was not yet back.
Old Bryce was already on duty. Though it was a mild and fairly clear night, he was wrapped up to the nose in a huge overcoat, and he complained bitterly of his rheumatism. But Kit noticed that he had not only a gun, but also an enormous blackthorn bludgeon, and continued his way, feeling fairly certain that anyone who tried to steal pheasants in Helen's Wood would have cause to feel sorry for himself.
It was dark in under the trees, and Kit, well as he knew the coverts, had to pick his way carefully. The crack of a dead stick under foot is heard a long way on a still night, and if any poacher was at work, Kit had no intention of allowing them to hear his approach.
Slipping along unobtrusively behind hedgerows and banks, he came, by degrees, to the upper end of Shorthouse Spinney, and here he paused and listened.
The place was very quiet. There was just a breath of wind moving, but only enough to faintly rustle the frost-nipped leaves up in the tops of the trees. Down below all was still. Far in the distance a dog was barking. This, and the faint bleating of sheep in a pasture half a mile away to the left, were the only sounds that reached his ears.
He was just about to move on again when he heard a slight but distinct rustle. He pulled up once more, listening breathlessly.
The sound came again, and now he was sure that it was footsteps moving cautiously over the carpet of dead leaves. Straining his eyes through the gloom, he presently made out a dim figure passing across a little open space between two giant tree-trunks.
In a flash he had sprung forward.
"Stop!" he said in a low, quick voice.
The man pulled up short and spun round. Kit saw that he had a gun in his hand. His own heart beat hard. If this were one of the Garbett's gang the chances were that he would not hesitate to use his weapon.
"Drop your gun!" ordered Kit sharply.
"Why—why, it's young Godwin; it's my keeper friend," said the other with quick relief. And instantly all Kit's suspicions blazed up afresh. The man was the self-styled Captain Dalton. But before he could voice them the other spoke again.
"Don't make a noise. They're down in the bottom below."
"Who are?" demanded Kit in a quick whisper.
"The gang—Garbett's gang. Brooker told me they were afoot to-night, so I chucked my fowling and came straight across. Thought it was the least I could do, as I'd unwittingly taken you off. But you're here in time. Now how are we going to work it?"
Kit was so confused he hardly knew what to say or do. Captain Dalton's explanation of his presence was so complete, so absolutely probable that he could hardly help believe it. And yet—yet it might be meant simply to throw him off the scent.
But he pulled himself together quickly. The proof, after all, would be whether Garbett's gang were really on the spot or no.
"I haven't heard them," he answered. "I haven't heard a shot fired."
"You wouldn't," said Dalton dryly. "But if you'd got a nose you ought to smell them."
"What—sulphuring?" exclaimed Kit. And just then a faint whiff of the heavy penetrating odour of burning sulphur reached his nostrils.
"Yes, sulphuring—the dirty tykes!" replied Dalton in a tone of intense disgust. "A beastly, murdering business. How many do you reckon there'll be of 'em?"
"Five or six," said Kit quickly.
"Gad! It's long odds. Have you any helper?"
"Only Bryce, and he's an elderly man. Besides, he's a mile back in Helen's Wood."
"H'm! then the job's up to us. Come on quietly, and let's see what they're at and where they are."
He was so evidently in earnest that Kit's suspicions vanished instantly.
"Keep round to the right, sir," he said. "There's plenty of cover all the way."
The other nodded, and side by side they crept down the slope. In the hollow at the bottom were a number of larch trees, and these, as Kit knew well, were a favourite roosting-place for the pheasants.
When they were within about fifty paces of these Kit stopped.
"That's where they are, sir," he whispered. "Not much doubt about that. Phew! what a reek. All the same, I can't see any fire, and one ought to if they are sulphuring."
"They're using a stove," replied Kit. "Just an old biscuit box with a few holes in it." What breeze there was set across from the direction of the larches, and the suffocating smell of sulphur grew stronger every moment. As they stood there, gazing into the gloom, suddenly came a heavy thud, followed by a slight rustle.
"That's one down," muttered Dalton.
Kit said nothing, but anger nearly choked him. He knew, as well as Dalton, that the sound was caused by a pheasant, suffocated by the sulphur fumes, toppling from its perch to the ground. By this time its neck would be wrung and it would have been consigned to the poachers' sack.
Thud! Thud! Two more birds were down. Kit grew almost frantic. At this rate they would clear the coppice in an hour.
"Let's rush them, sir," he whispered.
"And get filled with small shot for our pains? No. See here, Godwin, there's a lane near by, isn't there?"
"A cart track, sir—just over there."
"Right! Well, they'll have a cart there to carry off their spoil, and one man in charge. Suppose we manage to bag him and start the horse. That'll bring some of 'em back see what's up. Then we get a chance to cut in and tackle the rest. See?"
"I see, sir. It seems as good a scheme as any. Let's try it."
"Suppose you leave the cart to me? I can tackle the man in charge without help. Then when you hear me whistle you can make a rush from this side. If you make plenty of row they'll think they are being attacked in force, and will probably run for their lives."
Kit hesitated.
"It's all right," declared Dalton. "I've had plenty of practice in this sort of thing. I shan't mess it up."
Before Kit could remonstrate he had glided away and melted into the shadow.
The stink of burning sulphur grew heavier and presently Kit caught a little spark of red light in among the larches. They were carrying the brazier from one tree to another.
The minutes passed, and again came the heavy thud of a falling bird, then three more, one after another. And still no sign or sound of Dalton. Once more Kit's suspicions came to life.
He grew desperate, and at last began to move forward. He crawled on hands and knees, dragging his gun after him, and by degrees got to the very edge of the larches. He was now so near that he could actually see the figures of the poachers. There were four of them, and they were crouching in a wide circle around the biscuit box in which was burning a slow fire of dead leaves. Every now and then one would scatter a handful of sulphur upon the fire, and the smoke would rise up in a dense, suffocating cloud.
Near by was a sack apparently nearly full of dead birds, and every now and then another of Kit's cherished long-tails would come crashing down through the brittle twigs, to land with a thud on the ground. Then one of the men would spring up, wring its neck, and consign it to the sack.
Still no sign of Dalton. By this time Kit was practically certain that he had been humbugged, and that Dalton, or whatever his name was, had gone, and was by this time probably a mile away. He would have to tackle the job single-handed.
One thing was clear. A surprise attack was his only chance. He put his gun to his shoulder and aimed at the brazier. Slowly his forefinger tightened on the trigger, then came the crash of the report, and the brazier, blown to atoms, disappeared in a cloud of smoke and sparks.
Kit put his gun to his shoulder and aimed—the
brazier, blown to atoms, disappeared in a cloud of smoke
As the men sprang to their feet in alarm Kit instantly glided away from the clump of brambles behind which he had been sheltering and made for the thickest of the trees.
"It's that there cub of a keeper!" roared one of the men.
Just then a dry stick cracked under Kit's boot.
"He's shifted. He's over there. 'Arter him, boys!" shouted the man.
Kit saw he was done. He must either use his gun or bolt. And a keeper does not use his gun until the last extremity.
All four men were rushing upon him when from somewhere in the background came a sudden pounding of horse's hoofs and a roar of rapidly revolving wheels.
Kit's heart leaped with joy.
"All right, sir," he shouted. "Here they are." Then, with a happy inspiration: "Bryce, you come round behind."
The poachers one and all, pulled up.
"It's the horse bolted!" cried one in dismay, and turned and ran for the road.
"'Ere, I'm a-going to get out o' this," cried another, and bolted after the first speaker.
Gun in hand, Kit sprang out.
"Put up your hands!" he shouted.
With a savage exclamation one of the two remaining men, a thick-set ox of a fellow, ran at him, swinging his gun by the barrels. Kit raised his own gun to counter, but the force of the blow knocked it spinning, and brought him to his knees.
"If it ain't the cub hisself!" roared the other savagely. "I'll teach ye!"
And Garbett—for it was Garbett himself—swung up his gun butt a second time. Kit was helpless. Another instant and the butt would have crashed upon his skull, when there was a rush of flying feet, and Captain Dalton, arriving in the very nick of time, caught Garbett round the waist from behind, tripped him, and flung him down.
There was a short, sharp struggle; then, between the two of them, Garbett was disarmed and tied.
"You were in a bit of a hurry, weren't you?" asked Dalton of Kit.
Kit did not answer.
Dalton laughed. "All's well that ends well. The other three have hooked it, but we've got the boss. Now if we can put him somewhere under lock and key we can all go to bed."
"We can leave him with Bryce, sir. He'll keep him quite safe," Kit answered. The other nodded, and between them they marched the prisoner away.
Wednesday came, but the party for the shoot did not include Captain Dalton. Kit said nothing, but he was badly puzzled. It was not until the next day that light was shed on the mystery. It was in the shape of a letter which came that morning, but had no address.
"Dear Godwin," it ran.—"It may be some satisfaction to you to know that you were right all the time. My name isn't Dalton, and I am not a captain. All the same, I am fond of a bit of sport when I can get it on the cheap. But I shoot in the day; I draw the line at poisoning birds by night. I meant to leave you at a friend's-house near the mere all Tuesday and have a day undisturbed in your coverts. But you were a bit too cute for me, and I congratulate you.
"Well, I think we can call it square, so if I were you I'd tear this up and keep mum.—Yours fraternally, Sportsman."
Kit read this through twice. Then he threw his head back and laughed.
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.