Odd Craft, Complete

He was a sharp-looking man, tall and thin, with screwed-up eyes and a little red beard. The second day ‘e came ‘e was up here at this ‘ere Cauliflower, having a pint o’ beer and looking round at the chaps as he talked to the landlord. The odd thing was that men who’d never taken a hare or a pheasant in their lives could ‘ardly meet ‘is eye, while Bob Pretty stared at ‘im as if ‘e was a wax-works.

“I ‘ear you ‘ad a little poaching in these parts afore I came,” ses Mr. Cutts to the landlord.

“I think I ‘ave ‘eard something o’ the kind,” ses the landlord, staring over his ‘ead with a far-away look in ‘is eyes.

“You won’t hear of much more,” ses the keeper. “I’ve invented a new way of catching the dirty rascals; afore I came ‘ere I caught all the poachers on three estates. I clear ‘em out just like a ferret clears out rats.”

“Sort o’ man-trap?” ses the landlord.

“Ah, that’s tellings,” ses Mr. Cutts.

“Well, I ‘ope you’ll catch ‘em here,” ses Bob Pretty; “there’s far too many of ‘em about for my liking. Far too many.”

“I shall ‘ave ‘em afore long,” ses Mr. Cutts, nodding his ‘ead.

“Your good ‘ealth,” ses Bob Pretty, holding up ‘is mug. “We’ve been wanting a man like you for a long time.”

“I don’t want any of your impidence, my man,” ses the keeper. “I’ve ‘eard about you, and nothing good either. You be careful.”

“I am careful,” ses Bob, winking at the others. “I ‘ope you’ll catch all them low poaching chaps; they give the place a bad name, and I’m a’most afraid to go out arter dark for fear of meeting ‘em.”

Peter Gubbins and Sam Jones began to laugh, but Bob Pretty got angry with ‘em and said he didn’t see there was anything to laugh at. He said that poaching was a disgrace to their native place, and instead o’ laughing they ought to be thankful to Mr. Cutts for coming to do away with it all.

“Any help I can give you shall be given cheerful,” he ses to the keeper.

“When I want your help I’ll ask you for it,” ses Mr. Cutts.

“Thankee,” ses Bob Pretty. “I on’y ‘ope I sha’n’t get my face knocked about like yours ‘as been, that’s all; ‘cos my wife’s so partikler.”

“Wot d’ye mean?” ses Mr. Cutts, turning on him. “My face ain’t been knocked about.”

“Oh, I beg your pardin,” ses Bob; “I didn’t know it was natural.”

Mr. Cutts went black in the face a’most and stared at Bob Pretty as if ‘e was going to eat ‘im, and Bob stared back, looking fust at the keeper’s nose and then at ‘is eyes and mouth, and then at ‘is nose agin.

“You’ll know me agin, I s’pose?” ses Mr. Cutts, at last.

“Yes,” ses Bob, smiling; “I should know you a mile off—on the darkest night.”

“We shall see,” ses Mr. Cutts, taking up ‘is beer and turning ‘is back on him. “Those of us as live the longest’ll see the most.”

“I’m glad I’ve lived long enough to see ‘im,” ses Bob to Bill Chambers. “I feel more satisfied with myself now.”

Bill Chambers coughed, and Mr. Cutts, arter finishing ‘is beer, took another look at Bob Pretty, and went off boiling a’most.

The trouble he took to catch Bob Pretty arter that you wouldn’t believe, and all the time the game seemed to be simply melting away, and Squire Rockett was finding fault with ‘im all day long. He was worn to a shadder a’most with watching, and Bob Pretty seemed to be more prosperous than ever.

Sometimes Mr. Cutts watched in the plantations, and sometimes ‘e hid ‘imself near Bob’s house, and at last one night, when ‘e was crouching behind the fence of Frederick Scott’s front garden, ‘e saw Bob Pretty come out of ‘is house and, arter a careful look round, walk up the road. He held ‘is breath as Bob passed ‘im, and was just getting up to foller ‘im when Bob stopped and walked slowly back agin, sniffing.

“Wot a delicious smell o’ roses!” he ses, out loud.

He stood in the middle o’ the road nearly opposite where the keeper was hiding, and sniffed so that you could ha’ ‘eard him the other end o’ the village.

“It can’t be roses,” he ses, in a puzzled voice, “be-cos there ain’t no roses hereabouts, and, besides, it’s late for ‘em. It must be Mr. Cutts, the clever new keeper.”

He put his ‘ead over the fence and bid ‘im good evening, and said wot a fine night for a stroll it was, and asked ‘im whether ‘e was waiting for Frederick Scott’s aunt. Mr. Cutts didn’t answer ‘im a word; ‘e was pretty near bursting with passion. He got up and shook ‘is fist in Bob Pretty’s face, and then ‘e went off stamping down the road as if ‘e was going mad.

And for a time Bob Pretty seemed to ‘ave all the luck on ‘is side. Keeper Lewis got rheumatic fever, which ‘e put down to sitting about night arter night in damp places watching for Bob, and, while ‘e was in the thick of it, with the doctor going every day, Mr. Cutts fell in getting over a fence and broke ‘is leg. Then all the work fell on Keeper Smith, and to ‘ear ‘im talk you’d think that rheumatic fever and broken legs was better than anything else in the world. He asked the squire for ‘elp, but the squire wouldn’t give it to ‘im, and he kept telling ‘im wot a feather in ‘is cap it would be if ‘e did wot the other two couldn’t do, and caught Bob Pretty. It was all very well, but, as Smith said, wot ‘e wanted was feathers in ‘is piller, instead of ‘aving to snatch a bit o’ sleep in ‘is chair or sitting down with his ‘ead agin a tree. When I tell you that ‘e fell asleep in this public-’ouse one night while the landlord was drawing a pint o’ beer he ‘ad ordered, you’ll know wot ‘e suffered.

O’ course, all this suited Bob Pretty as well as could be, and ‘e was that good-tempered ‘e’d got a nice word for everybody, and when Bill Chambers told ‘im ‘e was foolhardy ‘e only laughed and said ‘e knew wot ‘e was about.

But the very next night ‘e had reason to remember Bill Chambers’s words. He was walking along Farmer Hall’s field—the one next to the squire’s plantation—and, so far from being nervous, ‘e was actually a-whistling. He’d got a sack over ‘is shoulder, loaded as full as it could be, and ‘e ‘ad just stopped to light ‘is pipe when three men burst out o’ the plantation and ran toward ‘im as ‘ard as they could run.

Bob Pretty just gave one look and then ‘e dropped ‘is pipe and set off like a hare. It was no good dropping the sack, because Smith, the keeper, ‘ad recognised ‘im and called ‘im by name, so ‘e just put ‘is teeth together and did the best he could, and there’s no doubt that if it ‘adn’t ha’ been for the sack ‘e could ‘ave got clear away.

As it was, ‘e ran for pretty near a mile, and they could ‘ear ‘im breathing like a pair o’ bellows; but at last ‘e saw that the game was up. He just man-aged to struggle as far as Farmer Pinnock’s pond, and then, waving the sack round his ‘ead, ‘e flung it into the middle of it, and fell down gasping for breath.

“Got—you—this time—Bob Pretty,” ses one o’ the men, as they came up.

“Wot—Mr. Cutts?” ses Bob, with a start. “That’s me, my man,” ses the keeper.

“Why—I thought—you was. Is that Mr. Lewis? It can’t be.”

“That’s me,” ses Keeper Lewis. “We both got well sudden-like, Bob Pretty, when we ‘eard you was out. You ain’t so sharp as you thought you was.”

Bob Pretty sat still, getting ‘is breath back and doing a bit o’ thinking at the same time.

“You give me a start,” he ses, at last. “I thought you was both in bed, and, knowing ‘ow hard worked Mr. Smith ‘as been, I just came round to ‘elp ‘im keep watch like. I promised to ‘elp you, Mr. Cutts, if you remember.”

“Wot was that you threw in the pond just now?” ses Mr. Cutts.

“A sack,” ses Bob Pretty; “a sack I found in Farmer Hall’s field. It felt to me as though it might ‘ave birds in it, so I picked it up, and I was just on my way to your ‘ouse with it, Mr. Cutts, when you started arter me.”

“Ah!” ses the keeper, “and wot did you run for?”

Bob Pretty tried to laugh. “Becos I thought it was the poachers arter me,” he ses. “It seems ridikilous, don’t it?”

“Yes, it does,” ses Lewis.

“I thought you’d know me a mile off,” ses Mr. Cutts. “I should ha’ thought the smell o’ roses would ha’ told you I was near.”

Bob Pretty scratched ‘is ‘ead and looked at ‘im out of the corner of ‘is eye, but he ‘adn’t got any answer. Then ‘e sat biting his finger-nails and thinking while the keepers stood argyfying as to who should take ‘is clothes off and go into the pond arter the pheasants. It was a very cold night and the pond was pretty deep in places, and none of ‘em seemed anxious.

“Make ‘im go in for it,” ses Lewis, looking at Bob; “‘e chucked it in.”

“On’y Becos I thought you was poachers,” ses Bob. “I’m sorry to ‘ave caused so much trouble.”

“Well, you go in and get it out,” ses Lewis, who pretty well guessed who’d ‘ave to do it if Bob didn’t. “It’ll look better for you, too.”