Chapter X: Y. Z (3)

It very often happens that the most experienced will mistake the dead bird’s fall for that of a runner, and a runner’s for that of a dead bird, but the latter is less frequent. The runner generally flaps a wing as he falls, shows the white of the other one and holds his head up; but all these signs taken together do not prove him to be a runner, because he may have had a lung shot as well, and then he will die upon the ground. Again, a runner may deceive in the other way, he will sometimes fall as if unconscious and then recover and run away. The runner which is just wing-tipped and can fly a long way, sinking slightly until he touches the ground, will not fly again, but generally proves to be a very strong pedestrian indeed.

Several different kinds of hits cause birds to drop their legs instantly, and I fancy that when this happens they are always found where they fall, near or far. The most common of these is the lung-shot bird, then there is the back-broken bird, which does the same, and may also be known by the wobble of his flight—an up-and-down movement, like a boat in a heavy sea. Then there is the leg-broken bird which is likely enough to fly again, but not to run, that day at least. A broken-legged bird generally only has one leg down, whereas a dead bird generally drops both, no matter how far he is to fly before he dies. I think a bird very seldom bleeds to death from a shot wound in the neck vein, but probably this must happen sometimes. I am inclined to think that when the only wound is in the blood-vessels of the neck the bird would fly so far, losing blood all the way; that when he was picked up the cause of death would not be recognised, and I think this is the reason why this kind of wound is so seldom seen. It does not follow that it infrequently occurs.

A shot which breaks the spinal cord is as instantaneous in effect as one which enters the brain, and brings the bird down at once, but not with what is called a broken neck, for I never saw a broken neck in grouse, partridge, or pheasant, unless the keepers had wilfully done it in order to kill a wounded bird. It is a very bad plan to kill any game this way, and especially grouse, for without the bone of the neck to suspend them on the stick the weight often causes the body to drop and be lost in the heather. The skin alone is not strong enough to carry, at any rate, the young birds, especially when boys drag their feet and bodies through the tall heather.

It has been said that the reason partridges “tower” is that they are obliged to lift their heads upwards in order to get their breath, and that their bodies follow where their heads point. This can hardly be the reason, because we have two kinds of “towerers” to deal with, and besides, many a blackcock on taking wing and going away horizontally, nevertheless holds up his head and looks at his disturber over his back, but he does not go upwards in consequence. I do not believe that the upward flight is caused either by any rudder-like action of the tail, although that is, perhaps, possible.

Probably the wings are so set by Nature that their beats not only counteract gravity, but something more than this, and it possibly requires the will of the bird in steering to make him keep a horizontal course. The concave undersurface offers more resistance to the air than the upper convex surface. Hitherto I have considered that this arrangement was meant to negative gravity when the bird was urging its forward course, but when one remembers that young birds with half the power of flight of the old ones nevertheless can rise quite easily, and seem to maintain a horizontal course quite comfortably—that is, their inferior wings in ordinary up-and-down beats are equal to the resistance of gravity—consequently, it appears almost certain that the ordinary beats of better wings are much more than equal to the resisting of gravity. Or, in other words, if partridges in a state of health did not wilfully hug the ground they would rise up like “towered” birds.

I wonder whether this is the reason that day birds (which appear to migrate in their sleep, and certainly cannot travel by night at any other time than when the instinct is upon them) migrate at great altitudes. That is to say, whether they go up because they cannot help it. If so, there would be a certain altitude for each kind of bird where the wing beats influence, on the more rarified air, in sending the bird up, and the lessened power of gravity, would become equal, and at that altitude the bird would travel forward without the will being called into request to keep a horizontal course. Balloonists tell us that at great heights birds thrown out fall like stones, so that there must be an altitude where ordinary wing action ceases to overcome gravity. In any case the partridge goes upward, whether either head or lungs deprive him of part of his senses, probably of all the sense of direction except that one of keel downwards, that no bird ever seems to lose as long as he is alive.

Another reason for believing that the natural up-and-down wing beats would take any healthy bird upwards as well as forwards is to be found in the necessity of the moult. If the full wing beats only kept the horizontal course then it would probably happen that the loss of a single flight feather would have the effect that gravity would gradually overcome the horizontal tendency and pull the bird downwards; but that does not appear to be true, and this is additional reason for believing that the up-and-down wing beats with a horizontal keel much more than overcome gravity, and that consequently when a bird cannot direct its own course it goes upwards, because it is built to do so, and to overcome the downward drag of gravity by the mere up-and-down wing action and a level “keel.”

G. T. TEASDALE BUCKELL.

Hunt “Runners.”
IV.
BUTLER OF THE NORTH COTSWOLD.

There are few more picturesque hunting scenes than the country around the Cotswold Hills in the fair county of Worcestershire, which is hunted by Mr. Charles McNeill and his famous pack of Belvoir-bred bitches. This Eden of foxhunting is a much sought after possession, wild and rugged with variety of scene on hill and dale, pasture and woodland. It has often been said that farmers are the backbone of foxhunting, and these Worcestershire sportsmen, bred and born to it, are a community whose fame for staunchness to sport is known far and wide. The majority of them, or their sons, ride to hounds, and wire is practically unknown in their country, whilst foxes are preserved as they ought to be, the best of good feeling prevailing between sport and agriculture. All the same, we did not expect to find a farmer in the capacity of runner to the hunt.

Many countries are going begging for a master, but not so the North Cotswold, which has been so successfully presided over by Mr. Charles McNeill for the past five seasons, the announcement of whose retirement was received with universal regret. When it became known there was a vacancy for next season, twenty-two applicants for the mastership came before the Hunt Committee; showing how hunting men appreciated a community of farmers who plump solid for sport. Sir John Hume Campbell is to be congratulated that he has been chosen to succeed Mr. McNeill.

Butler, the runner to the Hunt, wearing the cap and scarlet coat of office, is a typical Worcestershire dairy farmer. Born in the Heythrop country close by, he has followed the hounds on foot for the past twenty years, which occupies the reign of three masterships—Mr. Algernon Rushout, Captain Cyril Stacey and Mr. Charles McNeill. Before that time he had five years in the saddle making young horses, “hunting oftener than his master did,” as he put it, and a coachman’s place for six months in the heart of Birmingham was the last straw that compelled him to give up domestic service, and take to the wild, free life of a runner, with farming as a mainstay. On a hunting morning Butler is up before daybreak to get his cows milked, pigs and poultry attended to, so that the institution of a bicycle to ride the long distances to and from covert has been a great saving of time and exertion.

Our first sight of the North Cotswold Hunt in the field was at a picturesque fixture, Cheevering Green, in the hill district, and there we made Butler’s acquaintance when he stood holding open the gate as horsemen drew up from far and near. A middle-aged man, with a dash of grey in his side whiskers, and keen, penetrating brown eyes, foxhunting is written in every line of a face evidently intended by Nature for a hunting cap. Sporting the primrose collar of the Hunt, and the coronet on his button dating back to Lord Coventry’s mastership, Butler, with his sturdy black and white terrier, makes a pleasing adjunct to a Hunt which is appointed in Leicestershire style. There is no gainsaying the fact that the countryside appreciates a Hunt that is well found in all departments, and a scarlet coat is still a passport which will admit its wearer where others would be less welcome. It was the late Duke of Beaufort who used to say that every man who goes hunting ought to pay the chase the compliment by putting on his best clothes, even if it be his Sunday suit. Though the North Cotswold is a Hunt far distant from Leicestershire, yet Mr. McNeill has aimed at perfection in every department, and by doing so won everybody’s gratitude; for, after all, the pomp and pageantry of the chase tends to its popularity in a marked degree, which more sterling qualities can hardly boast. When the Master-huntsman rode up in the middle of his pack of seventeen and a half couple of bitches there was a cheery word all round, and expectancy which preludes a good day’s sport. As usual, the Hunt runner had a quiet word for the ear of the Master, news of an outlying fox which a neighbouring farmer had viewed every morning for the last week. These North Cotswold bitches, for Mr. McNeill has no doghounds in his pack, have done well this season, killing seventy-two foxes up to the middle of January, in a country that is fourteen miles long and eight miles wide in the middle, being a good deal less top and bottom. All Belvoir in colour and type, they are triumphs of breeding, proving their worth by winning prizes on the flags at Peterborough, and golden opinions in the field, where they are remarkable for tongue and drive, a pack that mean catching their fox at the end of a gallop. Mr. McNeill is a Leicestershire man, who acquired the greater part of his skill as a huntsman studying the methods of Tom Firr, and he is as quick as lightning, inspiring hounds and followers with confidence.

For the first draw we commenced hill-climbing to the larch plantations up above, an experience that made one appreciate the sagacity of a well-trained hunter.

These hill districts must require a considerable amount of stopping before a day’s hunting, but it is not a duty now performed by the runner. Butler’s mission is to bolt the foxes when they get to ground, and for this he receives half-a-crown on every successful occasion. Years ago he carried a big, white buck-ferret, and worked him on a line when foxes sought the shelter of stone drains. Unfortunately, the ferret came to an untimely end; making a hole in the bag in which he was being conveyed home one wet night, he escaped and, perishing of cold, was found dead next morning.

From the hill-top we were rewarded with a beautiful view of a far-stretching panorama of country in the vale beneath, and quickly the sonorous music of the big-framed bitches lent enchantment to the scene. A second or two later the whipper-in’s silver whistle was ringing out the glad “Gone away,” and Butler, with a smile of satisfaction on his face, was holding up his cap; there were no confusing halloas. Though the North Cotswold country is anything but a good scenting one, except when there is a bite of east in the wind, the bitches rattled their fox out of covert, and keeping his head up wind as they slipped down into the vale, spread-eagled their field in a hunt of thirty minutes to the Croome country on the opposite hillside. It was a ride full of new experiences, giving us, alas, but a distant view of the Master and hounds as they skimmed over the stone walls that divide the seventy-acre pastures. A rain-cloud blotted us out at the finish, enveloping the hillside in a dense wall of fog, robbing the pack at a critical moment of well-earned blood.

WITH THE NORTH COTSWOLD.
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Stone-wall jumping is a characteristic of the North Cotswold country, and it is surprising how well hounds’ legs and feet stand the trial, proving the worth of good bone and breeding, which, like first-class machinery, can go at the highest pressure and last. In the vale there is a beautiful line of grass with upstanding fences, equal to anything to be found in Leicestershire, so that a hunt is seen under all sorts of conditions, and a pack that can do well here is fit for any country.

Talking of runs brings up a wealth of reminiscences, for it is a district in which the keenest interest is taken in the doings of hounds by the non-hunting fraternity, who are sportsmen to the very core. To set the runner and his friends talking hunting is like putting a match to gunpowder, and two brilliant bursts we noted down would make the fortune of a season’s sport. Finding a fox near Hyatt’s Spinney, the bitches, with tuneful chorus, drove him along into the open country of large acred fields surrounded by stone walls. There was a burning scent, and so good was the pace that hounds could keep their fox travelling up wind, whilst Mr. McNeill was viewing nearly the whole of the journey in a hunt of twenty minutes.

It was a regular Belvoir burst, and the pilot had to go straight in the race for his life, losing no time over the walls, he ran up the middle of each field in a desperate effort to gain on his pursuers. Such a high state of tension could not last for long, and the huntsman at last saw the fox miss his footing at a stone wall and fall back from distress. Though the mistake only made a matter of a few seconds, it cost a gallant fox his life, for before he could clear in a second attempt, a bitch called Housemaid dashed up, and seizing hold of his brush, pulled him back, but herself went over the wall, where she lay, knocked out. An electrifying cheer from the master put a finish to the fastest burst of this season, under the wall near Springhill.

Another good gallop this season, both from a thruster’s point of view as well as the huntsman’s, was from Gallipot Gorse in the Vale. An old customer, who had on several occasions led the pack a dance, always to save his brush by getting to ground, was not so fortunate on this day.

Getting away close at him, they drove along to Toddington without touching a cover, and running by Worrington Village they crossed the new railway below Laverton. It was evident to those with hounds that the pilot meant the earths on the hillside in Burrill Wood, but two fields from that point the pack suddenly viewed their fox. Up went their hackles, and giving utterance to that cry of delight which proclaims the death-knell, their language seemed to convey its meaning to the hunted one. A curious incident occurred at the finish, which was witnessed by several members of the Hunt. In the last field, a grass one, when this gallant fox knew the end had come, he turned round and met the pack with his hackles up, and made the best fight he could, a game old warrior, indeed. With gleaming ivories shining defiantly, he died facing the foe, his teeth meeting in a death-grip directly the leading hound seized him. So good a fox was honoured with full funeral rites, all wanting a bit of him, and the Master would not have been half sorry if he had just managed to beat them at the finish.

When it comes to dislodging a fox, Butler is not the first man with the spade, for the staff has one better in Padison, the first whip, who is determined, in the saddle or out of it. Where there is any chance of handling a fox he goes to work with the fire and dash of a fox terrier, stripping to his shirt in the effort to get under ground. The kennel huntsman is old Dan Reid, who looks quite classic in appearance, riding a long-tailed black thoroughbred; and being of Irish extraction, he has the dry humour of that race. On one occasion when they were out a badger, some one remarked that Mr. Brock was scratching in faster than they were digging him out. Dan replied: “No, but he’s not, for I’ve put a tarrier dog in to keep him amused.”

One story more about the runner and we have done, for there is always chaff flying about with the wheat, and this belongs to the lighter quality. After a mark to ground in a drain, the runner was left with instructions to get the fox out, whilst hounds went on to draw elsewhere. Unfortunately, it occurred to him to give the neighbouring villagers a little entertainment on his own, and soon tremendous holloaing was heard in the distance. To the master’s horror he saw a crowd of village women round a red-coated figure who was wheeling a barrow, in which was a cider barrel containing the unfortunate fox in a bag. All the party were halloaing, delighted at the prospect of making a Roman holiday of the arch enemy. It was a moment when the Master showed his royal displeasure, and the fox was at once enlarged, such a mistake never happening again.

“The Old Horse.”

Yes, taken all round, he was, without doubt, the best horse I ever owned. Good at every kind of fence; bold, yet clever as a cat; never sick or sorry after the hardest day; and nothing too big for him. Oh, yes, I had a few falls off him. For myself, I have always thought the horses that never fall rather mythical animals. It has always seemed to me that the hunter of whom the fond owner proudly says: “He doesn’t know how to fall,” can scarcely know how to jump. For a horse that can cross a difficult country without sometimes making a mistake must really be somewhat uninteresting, like the good people who always do and say the absolutely correct thing.

That is his picture just above the mantel-piece. Made all over like a hunter; blood, bone—and look at his girth. Ewe-necked? Just a trifle; but he put on a lot of muscle there after the picture was done, and I have noticed that a horse with that formation, or fault, is often a real stayer.

Perhaps so; those good bits of the past always look a good deal brighter than when they made our present; but still, I will insist that the old horse—he will always be “the old horse” to me—was the very best I ever rode. He had a little temper; but, then, the best horses and men have that—and women? rather!—and when they are, all through, the right sort, and generous, it improves them. And the old horse _was_ generous! Why, if he had been a man, I always thought he would have made an ideal one. It is just ten years ago to-night since I lost him. Bless me! how time does go. I had returned, well pleased, after a good day’s hunting. We had had one of those real old-fashioned sporting runs in which hounds hunt steadily on, though nothing very brilliant in the way of pace occurs. I had dined, my coffee had been slowly sipped, my cigar had been under way some fifteen minutes, and was being enjoyed with that feeling of extraordinary contentment which a long day in the open air gives to the sportsman. I had tried several favourite books, and found all impossible, as usual after a hard day’s hunting; BAILY’S had just dropped from my hand, and I had given way to a reverie on the performances of my friends and myself during the day. The wind had been rising gradually, and now blew in strong and fitful gusts, and again, with faint moaning “sough” through the trees. I must have been dozing; but a tap at the door suddenly roused me, and Stablem entered the room and said: “Please sir, the old ’oss ain’t nearly so well to-night.” I was alert then. The old horse! He had not been well for some time; indeed, latterly, he had been failing fast. I had bought him as a four-year-old, and had ridden him for twelve seasons, but only two or three days at the beginning of this. He had suddenly seemed to lose all his form, and got listless, and then he became, all at once—old. He had since been given only gentle exercise, and passed his time in his box; and the “vet.” said he could not do very much for him. So, very sadly, I rose and followed my man to the stables. The old horse was lying curled up in a corner, more in the way one sees a dog lie. He was moaning, in a low, crooning key, which to me seemed terribly human. When I spoke to him he raised his head and tried to prick his ears. I stroked his muzzle and looked into his eye, once so prominent and bright, now so sunk and dull. Yet I felt he was glad to see me. Ah, he and I had ever been on the best of terms. Other friends had sometimes been far from true. We had found them—those whom we had trusted—mean, and not running straight; but the old horse, he had ever been the same—brave, generous, and cheery. He stretched himself out, and lay stiff and flat. Poor fellow! He looked so small and “gone”; his once rich coat, a mahogany chestnut, was dry and colourless. He was the mere shadow of his former self—the slashing, sixteen-hand hunter had shrunk to this.

A hundred memories rushed through my brain of the halcyon days he and I had spent together. The best runs I had ever ridden had been on his back. The longest day had never been too long for him. Of course, you know he was thoroughbred, and up to fourteen stone, and I ride only a little over twelve, and how game he was! He only refused once, and we found there was a great quarry hole behind that fence! He was always so flippant and free, and now—and the thought struck me like a knife—he would never hunt again.

In perfect health the thought seldom occurs to us that we may never do this or that thing again; never again see some loved face, nor hear our friends’ cheery chaff, nor again gaze on some familiar scene. If we _could_ know, how miserable we should be long before our misery comes. So it was with the old horse and me, I had ridden him so long that I somehow seemed to think I should go on riding him. Nothing much had ever happened him; a few slight cuts, but nothing serious, in all the years we had been together. A fine feeder, he had gone on like clockwork; but, at last, the wheels had run down; and I realised, with a grief that some may consider out of place when only a horse is the object, that our friendship was being severed. It seemed so strange that we should part; we who had only parted in our falls; we who had galloped through so many brilliant bursts and struggled on to the end of so many long runs. It was hard indeed; but the very strangeness of it seemed greater than my grief. I had never known how fond I was of the old horse.

To watch a dumb animal die is, in one sense at least, more pathetic than in the case of a human being. In a way it seemed harder, more cruel, than if a man lay dying, for then there would be some consciousness of the coming change or end of things; and, if not, humanity has all along been educated for this inevitable termination. This is the looked-for goal, which lies—always far off, of course, but still ever there—at the further side of life; a something to be seldom thought or spoken of. But the old horse did not know these things. He did not know that life was slipping from him. The future, at any rate, had no terrors for him, and the past brought no remorse. He was even hardly unhappy in the present; and of pain he had little or none. With him it was almost an euthanasia. If he thought at all, it was probably of finer and happier hunting grounds than any he had ever seen; fields that he would cross without tiring, and where “the going” was all grass and no plough. Perhaps he dreamt of this as he feebly neighed. I hoped he did. I hoped that, in some vague, mysterious fashion, the old horse felt that he was going to be at rest. For surely one who had been so dear to me could never be allowed to die—to go out—unaware like that he was going to something better? And, as I watched him, I thought that he was one of the few hunters who never seemed to have “bad days.” Poor fellow! What pleasure I owed him! For what pleasure in life is there to be compared to that which we owe to our hunters? And this union, wherein lay so many exquisite memories, was to be dissolved. I would still have the memories, but the old horse was going. He even now seemed suddenly to get further away from me. A stupor had fallen on him, and, once or twice, I fancied that he thought he was galloping hard in the same field as the flying pack. I hoped he did, for it seemed good and right that he should be there in spirit, as he passed away from me. A few minutes more and I was alone, for the old horse had gone.

HUGH HENRY.

Some Novelties in the Laws of Croquet.

The Committee of the Croquet Association metaphorically, at any rate, do not let the grass grow under their feet, and the new edition of the “Laws of Croquet,” recently issued by the governing body of the game, will be studied with interest by the ever-increasing army of croquet players.

It was certainly a good move on the part of the members of the Croquet Association in January, 1905, when the Associates vested the authority to alter and add to the laws of the game in the hands of the Committee of the Association, instead of leaving reform, as before, to the hurry and disorder of a general meeting of the Association.

On January 26th and February 8th last, the Committee for the first time exercised their legislative authority, and in accordance with Rule xxi. several alterations in and additions to the laws of croquet were passed by a two-thirds majority of those present and voting, the necessary quorum of sixteen being present.

Perhaps one of the most important matters is the alteration to Law 8, which now reads: “In commencing, each ball shall in turn be placed on the central line of the ground within three feet of the spot marked A in the diagram of the setting.”

The central line of the ground is, of course, an imaginary straight line passing through both pegs and extending to the boundary, and the spot marked A is on the boundary immediately behind the winning peg.

Now this appears to be a great improvement, for the old method of starting the game with the balls a foot in front of the first hoop was not satisfactory. It required a great effort of clumsiness for a player not to run his first hoop to start with, although many a good player has been “had” once at least over the tricky opening credited to the fertile mind of Mr. Eveleigh, which consisted in playing one’s ball back into the first hoop, so that the following player was compelled to take croquet before running the hoop.

A great merit of the new starting point is that it will do away with the wear and tear of the ground in front of the first hoop, and the holes and “rabbit-scrapes” which have disfigured the ground in front of the first hoop should be things of the past. Moreover, the hoop itself used to suffer damage from the attacks made upon it at the point-blank range of a foot (and frequently less) not only by the ball, but too often by the mallet of an impetuous player.

It will be very interesting to see what openings will be adopted by the experts under the altered conditions, and at all events the start of the game is likely to be more interesting than before, and for the makers of breaks there is the likelihood of occasionally including another point. But obviously in the case of very moderate players, the game might be considerably prolonged by this method of beginning the game.

According to the laws for 1906, however, there is no need for moderate players to play the full and most arduous setting, for Law 6 authorises two shorter settings, which may be used at discretion; and these should be most welcome to mediocre players, and in fact to all who would like to shorten the game. With the standard setting, the game of course consists of fourteen points for each ball.

DIAGRAM No. 3.
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DIAGRAM No. 4.

(From the “Laws of Croquet.”)
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A modification which has now been made optional is to play with this same setting, but after the fourth hoop has been made, instead of going down “the ladies’ mile,” through the two hoops in the middle, the new plan is to take the turning peg next, and then take the penultimate and rover hoops up to the winning peg as usual. Now here is a pretty little game of just eight points per ball, every hoop once and each peg once. The rough diagram, No. 3, will explain itself.

But the most interesting short setting is, to our mind, the one with no turning peg, and the winning peg in the middle of the ground.

As will be seen from diagram No. 4, on the opposite page, this setting entails the shifting of the penultimate and rover hoops farther apart from one another, each of them being about three and a half yards distant from the spots which under the standard setting would be occupied by the two pegs. The game here is as usual until after the fourth hoop has been run, and then the player has to come up through the penultimate and rover hoops, and afterwards back to the winning peg in the middle of the ground. Here there are only seven points to be made by each ball, and the presence of the winning peg in the middle of the ground seems to us an excellent idea, because not only will it require some skill on the part of the players to avoid embarrassment from this in the course of a break, since the peg will be exactly where the middle ball should be found in the academic four-ball break, but also the finish of the game has to take place in the middle of the ground. Now this is likely to make a great difference to the game.

To the ordinary player the end of the game is about the most difficult part of it. Obviously no one has had so much practice in finishing a game of croquet as he has in beginning it, for although two people begin a game, only one finishes it, and it is by no means easy to win the game even when you have got both balls at the rover stage or hoop, with the winning peg at the end of the ground. With the winning peg in the middle of the ground, it will be more important than ever that a player should win the game as soon as ever he can, without any delay in the centre of the ground in the middle of his adversary’s game.

_The Croquet Association Gazette_ draws attention to three great advantages offered by these short settings:—

(1) They will enable managers of tournaments to arrange for the “best of three” games to be played in cases where, with a longer setting, there would be time for single games only. The final could be either the best of five (short setting) or best of three (long setting.)

(2) The monotony of long breaks will be abolished.

(3) The shorter the game the larger the proportion of start to finish—the two most interesting periods of the game.

One of the worst features of the game of croquet as practised at tournaments of late years has been the practice of close wiring, by leaving the next player stuck in the middle of a hoop or up against the wire. A usual finish up to a break was to leave the next player tight in the blue hoop after the player had himself run it, and many a first-rate player has been beaten by 26 points without ever getting an open shot throughout the game. Last season some of the leading players, notably Mr. Arthur Gilbey, at Swakeleys, adopted a system which should defeat the methods of the close wirer, and this system has now been incorporated in the laws of the game. The new law reads as follows:—

“If at the commencement of a turn the striker’s ball is “wired” from
all the other balls, either through the interposition or
interference of any hoop or peg, such ball being distant less than
one yard from that hoop or peg and having been placed there by the
stroke of an adversary, the striker may at his option lift his ball
and play it from any spot within a yard of where it lies. A ball is
“wired” when (1) any part of it cannot be driven in a straight line
towards every part of the ball aimed at; or (2) a wire or peg so
interferes with the backward swing of the mallet that the striker
cannot freely aim at every part of the ball.”

_The Croquet Association Gazette_ points out four drawbacks to this law, viz., two measurements, lifting the ball, and the problem of deciding whether a ball be wired or not.

Also the definition of wiring demands careful attention. The whole target presented by the ball must be open; if the left-hand edge of the striker’s ball cannot be driven in a straight line so as to hit the right-hand edge of the object ball then the balls are wired. So this law gives the open shot to everyone who is not wired by his own mallet or that of his partner, should his ball be placed within three feet of a hoop or peg by an adversary. There still remains the chance of safely “masking” the balls from the shot of an opponent who is left in the open, and the leading players were quite equal to doing this last season. But “masking” the balls requires considerable ability, whilst any fool could jam an adversary’s ball in a hoop.

The law with regard to “taking off” without moving both balls has now been remodelled, and now that part of Law 17 reads: “In so doing (_i.e._, taking off) he must move or shake each ball perceptibly, should he fail to do so the balls are to remain where they lie or be replaced at the option of the striker, and the turn ceases. The striker, if challenged, must be prepared to assert definitely that he saw both balls move or shake, and in default of such assertion the balls shall not be considered to have been perceptibly moved or shaken. If the two balls do not touch before and in the act of taking croquet the adversary may require the stroke to be played again. In taking croquet the striker’s ball shall not be in contact with more than one ball.”

The result of this law is that this offence is no longer regarded as a foul stroke, but is treated much the same as the offence of driving one of the balls over the boundary in a croquet stroke; except that in the case of not moving the balls the offender can elect whether he will replace the balls as they were before the stroke was made, or whether he will leave them where they are at the end of the stroke.

It is quite right to make the penalty for non-moving or shaking less severe than formerly, for since it must generally be a matter of rather close observation to determine whether a ball has moved or no, and since the striker is obviously in the best position to observe this, it was difficult enough for some strikers to confess that they had not moved the ball, and it is to be hoped that the lightening of the punishment may lead to more pleas of guilty.

Of a verity there seems to be no end to the laws of croquet, and it requires quite a gifted head to carry them all, with their various alterations and additions; and the edition of the “Laws of Croquet” for 1906 is likely to revive the industry of the painstaking man who learns up the laws by heart as well as he can, and always carries a copy of the book in his pocket with a view to winning an occasional bet over some well-engineered discussion about the laws of croquet.

An interesting feature of the plans of the Croquet Association for next season is that the Committee have decided to use composition balls in all Association tournaments instead of wood, which up to this year has been the standard ball for tournaments.

Certainly the composition balls are in every way more satisfactory than wood: they are absolutely accurate as to shape, weight and size, the colour does not come off, and they are impervious to wet, whilst they are more durable and cleaner in all weathers than the wooden balls. Composition balls are, moreover, easier for running hoops than are those made of wood, they have greater resiliency and more drive about them; on the other hand, their resiliency is so great that it is very difficult to “roll up” two balls together across the ground. But since this rolling-up is nine times out of ten a foul stroke, to the extent that the mallet has more than one contact with the ball during the stroke, the more the roll-up is discouraged the better for the game. It is a counsel of perfection, but we know some players who go so far as to say that under favourable conditions the composition balls make the game of croquet too easy.

QUID.

True Fishing Stories.

Some years ago an acquaintance of mine solemnly assured me that he had once, when fly-fishing for trout, hooked a rabbit on the bank behind him, and with his forward stroke brought it over his head and dumped it down among the trout he was seeking to capture. Possibly he was using a “hare’s lug,” and let his imagination do the rest. Of course, I was too polite to question the performance. It is surprising what a good fly-rod will stand in this way. Fishing in wooded streams you now and then get very fast in a branch behind, and you do not find it out till the full force of your cast comes into action, and then the tree seems to be almost coming up by the roots, while rod and tackle do not give way, and are not a bit the worse. This reminds me that one day a few years ago I lent my rod for the afternoon to a man, a more or less distant cousin, who had come without one. He was a fisherman of long experience, so I had no misgivings about it. When I came in towards evening I found that he had been unfortunate enough to catch up in a tree and break the top just at the ferrule, and had had it mended by the village joiner. Accidents will happen in the best regulated families, but I did wish he had let the joiner alone. He then proceeded to add insult to injury by telling me that it was _my_ fault for having such a “rotten” rod, and a good deal more in the same strain. I have had worse rods and I have had better ones in my possession, but I had caught a great many trout with it at one time or another, and it was the only one I had with me. No doubt it is a good thing we are not all turned out of the same mould, but had the positions been reversed I am certain that I should have absolutely grovelled abjectly in my desire to avert his wrath and obtain his forgiveness.

But to go back to the rabbit. The nearest approach I ever made to this feat was when on a certain occasion I was fishing just above the town bridge at Marlborough, and my pal was standing on the bridge looking on. I suddenly heard a yell from him, and—well I did not throw _him_ over my head impaled on the hook of a “red quill,” but only a piece of his nose! It was at this very same place, possibly the same day, that I was drawing in a fish of quite a respectable size, when a small boy in the gallery sung out “Whoi don’t cher chuck down the rod and ketch ’old o’ the string?” I daresay the method might have been quite as successful. I know it is not, or was not then, a very attractive spot to be fishing. It is an unsavoury place, but I was there all the same, and some one ate the trout: _I_ did not. Then here is another incident bearing on the subject. When I was at Winchester, alas! many years ago, I was down “Water meads,” and saw a cow tearing along at full tilt, pursued at a distance of about thirty yards by a youth with outstretched arm, and a rod presented horizontally in the direction of the animal, also going for all he was worth, and he looked as if he soon would be worth very little. He had hooked “the coo,” which not unnaturally took to its heels, and he was no doubt anxious to save some of his cast, or haply his fly, or even land the coo. I do not remember how it ended, but possibly in after years he may have related to his sons, who I hope are also Wykehamists, how he once threw a coo over his head with a “Hammond’s guinea rod” into the Itchen!

Many of your readers have probably occasionally hooked a swallow or martin; on the two or three occasions on which this has happened to me the bird has not been hooked in the mouth, but round the neck, the fly forming a running noose on the gut. But I do not think many will have bagged a duck with a fly. It was a large bushy fly, and the wind caught it as I cast, and instead of its falling under the opposite bank, about two yards of gut stood straight up out of the water, and then fell over up stream just in time to meet an old Aylesbury duck with a brood of ducklings paddling down stream. It fell by the side of her, and though 1 tried to pick it up before she got it, she was too quick for me and snapped it up. There was “such a row as never was.” She quacked and splashed, and beat with her wings, and dived and did all she knew. This time I did “chuck down the rod and ketch ’old o’ the string” for fear of breaking my top joint. I hand-played her and landed her, and she was no worse for her adventure, being only just held by the skin of the mouth.

I lately saw a note in the _Field_ about a trout which had been hooked twice in the same day, having got the fly the first time, both flies being found in its mouth. I once came across a good trout rising in a still mill-tail; the wheel was at rest and all the water going round the other way; I rose him and left my fly in his mouth. As I observed that he did not seem to have taken much interest in the proceeding I put another fly on as quickly as I could, cast over him, hooked and landed him, and took both flies out of his mouth. His size, so far as I can remember, would have been somewhere about 1½ lb. Evidently he could have suffered no pain, and there can be little doubt that when the hook gets hold of just the skin of the mouth, which happens the most frequently in fly-fishing, though sometimes painful places are pierced, the fish feels only the resistance and the pull which tells him he has to fight for his life. One would think that a trout of about ¾ lb. could hardly swallow a pebble 2 inches across without, if not pain, at least some inconvenience. Yet it took my fly and appeared fairly healthy. One wonders why or how it came to get such a thing inside it. Last spring I twice caught in a north country river, in the same pool but not on the same day, a trout weighing 6 oz. or 7 oz., with a big stone loach jammed tight down its throat, and the tail sticking out of its mouth. It was quite a question whether the loach could be pulled out without breaking. Yet both of these trout took the fly with a dash, and made a gallant fight in the rather swollen stream, considering their inches. Those who know the Broad Water at Wansford in the East Riding are aware that the field on the west side slopes abruptly down considerably below the level of the water. I was once casting over a rising fish some distance out, and in drawing in for a fresh cast my line had to travel back over the edge of the bank itself, so that the fly might very easily get hung up tight on a snag or plant: this was what I supposed had happened, so I began pulling to see if it would come away without my having to go and release it and so scare the fish, when to my astonishment the line flew off in the direction of the opposite bank. I had actually hooked in the belly a fish lying under the bank, which was played and duly brought into the net.

I one day hooked a fish in Foston Beck, which dived straight into a bed of weeds from which no persuasion could move it. I tried hand-lining, but could do nothing; then an idea occurred to me: I spiked the rod in the ground, reeling up the line till it was just taut without any strain on, and strolled a couple of hundred yards down the bank to where my friend was fishing. I told him what had happened and stayed with him a bit, and then by-and-by returned to my place. Nothing was changed; the line stretched straight from the top ring to the weed as if purposely fastened there. I picked the rod up very carefully, and putting on a sudden strain hauled down stream, when out came the trout before he knew what was up, to be towed over the weeds into the net, and finally the basket.

Foston Beck reminds me of an incident which I would have gone a long way to see, but which I had the good fortune to witness while I was sitting on the bank under a thorn-bush eating sandwiches. I suppose I must have been very quiet, for a kingfisher came and pitched on a twig of the thorn, and remaining there a short time presently quitted it, hovered a moment over the water, pounced down, and came up with a little fish in his bill, just steadied himself on the twig, and then flew off. It was a pretty sight, and one that it is not often given to an angler to see, although he sees many pleasing things which no one else does. And now I must bring my rambling paper to an end; but just one more story first.

Every one knows what a bore it is to have to seem amused at sallies of wit which do not appeal to one, but a bit of unconscious humour from one who would be astonished to be thought funny makes one sometimes want to shout with laughter. On a certain day I was counting the spoil preparatory to going home. I do not think the bag was anything very striking, but there was a long, black, unwholesome fish among the others, which I suggested to the keeper had better be thrown away. “Oh,” said he, “there’s a gentleman there who has come a long way and has not got anything; I think he would be rather glad to have it to take home.” So he took it off and entered into negotiations with the said angler who was taking down his rod close by. I did not hear what went on, but just caught one sentence, viz., “H’m, the gentleman must be an ‘eepi-kewer,’” and he put it in the bag.

GAMMEL MAN.

P.S.—Since writing the foregoing notes there has recurred to my mind another amusing fish story. A friend of mine, he, forsooth, whose nasal organ I hooked on Marlborough Town Bridge, having had a day given him on a very fine stretch of preserved water, killed with dry fly a nice basket of trout from about 1¼ lb. up to 2 lb., which I saw and much admired. The best of these fish he sent to his old father by the hands of a man who had just come home from India, and who, to distinguish him from his brother, was spoken of as Mr. —— from India. They were duly delivered, but with the message that a gentleman had brought some fish from India! Whereupon my friend’s father, who would have greatly appreciated such trout, promptly ordered them to be thrown away. And thrown away they were, to the sore vexation of the successful and dutiful fisherman when he heard thereof.

A Hundred Years Ago.

(FROM THE _SPORTING MAGAZINE_ OF 1806.)
BOXING.
D. MENDOZA AND H. LEE.

Friday, March 21st, 1806, being appointed for the above pugilists to exhibit themselves in a pitched battle for 50 guineas, the same took place at Grinstead Green, three miles and a half through the town of Bromley in Kent. The combatants met in a 25-feet roped ring, formed on the Green soon after one o’clock, attended by their seconds, Bill Ward and Bill Gibbons for Mendoza, and the Game Chicken and Gulley for Lee.... Current betting in the ring was 3 to 1 on Mendoza....

The battle was continued until the fifty-second round, very much to the disadvantage of Lee, who, however, showed himself game by the very severe beating he had received. In the fifty-third round, which ended the fight, he fell without a blow, and Mendoza’s seconds did not choose to give away a chance as they had done several times in the course of the battle; and the matter being referred to two gentlemen who acted as umpires, they declared Mendoza the winner, after a sharp contest of one hour and ten minutes.