The Finger of Fate. Майн Рид

its howlings.

      Henry begs his brother to desist.

      In vain. Nigel continues the cudgelling.

      “Gi’e it him!” cries the unfeeling keeper. “Do the beggar good.”

      “You, Dick,” interposes Henry, “I shall report you to my father.”

      An angry exclamation from the half-brother, and a sullen scowl from the savage in gaiters, is the only notice taken of Henry’s threat. Nigel, irritated by it, only strikes more spitefully.

      “Shame, Nigel! Shame! You’ve beaten the poor brute enough—more than enough. Have done!”

      “Not till I’ve given him a mark to remember me!”

      “What are you going to do to him? What more?” hurriedly asks Henry, seeing that Nigel has flung away the stick, and stands threateningly with his knife. “Surely you don’t intend—”

      “To split his ear! That is what I intend doing!”

      “For shame! You shall not!”

      “Shall not? But I shall, and will!”

      “You shall split my hand first!” cries the humane youth, flinging himself on his knees, and with both hands covering the head of the setter.

      “Hands off, Henry! The dog is my own; I shall do what I please to him. Hands off, I say!”

      “I won’t!”

      “Then take the consequences.”

      With his left hand Nigel clutches at the animal’s ear, at the same time lunging out recklessly with the knife blade. Blood spurts up into the faces of both, and falls in crimson spray over the flax-like coat of the setter.

      It is not the blood of Nigel’s dog, but his brother’s—the little finger of whose left hand shows a deep, longitudinal cut traversing all the way from knuckle to nail.

      “You see what you’ve got by your interference!” cries Nigel, without the slightest show of regret. “Next time you’ll keep your claws out of harm’s way.”

      The unfeeling observation, more than the hurt received, at length stirs the Saxon blood of the younger brother.

      “Coward!” he cries. “Throw your knife away, and stand up. Though you are three years older than I, I don’t fear you. You shall pay for this.”

      Nigel, maddened by the challenge from one whom he has hitherto controlled, drops the knife; and the half-brothers close in a fisticuff, fight with anger as intense as if no kindred blood ran in their veins.

      As already stated, there is but slight difference in their size. Nigel the taller, Henry of stouter build. But in this sort of encounter the Saxon sinews soon show their superiority over the more flaccid frame of the Anglo-Indian; and in ten minutes’ time the latter appears but too well pleased, when the keeper interferes to prevent his further punishment. Had it gone the other way, Doggy Dick would have allowed the combat to continue.

      There is no thought of further sport. For that day, the woodcocks are permitted to remain undisturbed in their shrubby cover.

      Henry, binding up his wounded hand in a kerchief, strides direct homewards, followed by the black setter. Nigel stalks moodily behind, with Doggy Dick by his side, and the blood-besprinkled animal skulking cowed-like at his heels.

      General Harding is astonished at the early return of the sportsmen. Is the stream frozen up, and the woodcocks gone to more open quarters?

      The blood-stained kerchief comes under his eye, and the split finger requires explanation. So, too, a purple ring around the eye of his eldest born. The truth has to be told, each giving his version.

      The younger brother is at a disadvantage: for the testimony is two to one—the keeper declaring against him. For all that, truth triumphs in the mind of the astute old soldier, and although both his sons are severely reprimanded, Nigel receives the heavier share of the censure.

      It is a sad day’s sport for all—the black setter alone excepted.

      For Doggy Dick does not escape unscathed. Ere parting from the presence of the General, the licence is taken from his pocket; the velveteen shooting jacket stripped from his shoulders; and he receives his discharge, with a caution never to show himself again in the Beechwood preserves, under the penalty of being treated as a poacher.

Chapter Two.

       Table of Contents

      Doggy Dick.

      Doggy Dick, on being discharged by General Harding, in a short time succeeded in obtaining another and similar situation. It was on an estate bordering that of the General, whose cover came within a field or two of meeting with those of his neighbour. This gentleman was a city magnate, by name Whibley, who, having accumulated a fortune by sharp trading on the Stock Exchange, had purchased the estate in question, and commenced playing squire on an extensive scale.

      Between the old officer and the newcomer there was no cordiality; on the contrary, some coolness. General Harding had an instinctive contempt for the vulgar ostentation usually exhibited by these social upstarts, who must needs ride to the parish church in a carriage and pair, though their residence be but three hundred yards from the churchyard gate. Of this class was the gentleman in question.

      In addition to the dissimilarity of tastes between a retired officer and a retired stockbroker, a dispute had early occurred between them, about rights of game belonging to a strip of waste that stretched triangularly between their respective properties.

      It was a trifling affair, but well calculated to increase their mutual coolness; which at length ended in a hostility—silent, but understood. To this, perhaps, more than any professional merit, was Doggy Dick indebted for his promotion to be head keeper of the Whibley preserves; just the course which a parvenu would take for the satisfaction of his spite.

      On that same year, when the shooting season came round, the young Hardings discovered a scarcity of game in their father’s preserves. The General did not often go gunning himself, and would not have noticed this falling off; neither, perhaps, would Nigel; but Henry, who was passionately fond of field sports, at once perceived that there was a thinner stock of pheasants than on the preceding season. All the more surprising to him, because it was a good year for game generally, and pheasants in particular. The Whibley covers were swarming with them; and they were reported plentiful in the country around.

      It became a question whether General Harding’s gamekeeper had properly attended to his trust. No poaching had been reported, except some trifling cases of boys, who had been detected stealing eggs in the hatching season. But this had not occurred on a scale sufficient to account for the scarcity of the game.

      Besides, the new gamekeeper, who was reported one of the best, had been provided with a fall set of watchers; and, on the Whibley side, there was a staff not so strong, with Doggy Dick at their head.

      While reflecting on this, it occurred to Mr Henry Harding that something might have been done to attract the pheasants across to the Whibley covers. Perhaps a better lay of feed had been there provided for them?

      He knew that neither Doggy Dick nor his master owed any good-will towards him or his father; and a trick of this kind would be compatible with the character of the stockbroker.

      Still, there was nothing in it—beyond a certain discourtesy; and it only made it necessary that some steps should be taken to create a counter attraction for the game. Patches of buck wheat were sown here and there, and other favourite pheasant’s food was liberally laid through the covers.

      On the following season the result was the same, or worse—the strong, whirring wing was sparingly heard among the Harding preserves. Even