CHAPTER II.--AFFORDS A SPECIMEN OF HARRY’S “QUIET MANNER” WITH HIS

TENANTRY.

By two o’clock next day, Coverdale and Hazlehurst had walked for some six hours, and conjointly taken the lives of seven couple of rabbits, ten unfortunates having fallen victims to the new double-barrel, while Hazlehurst had disposed of the remaining four. A sumptuous luncheon, with unlimited pale ale and brown stout, awaited them at the gamekeeper’s cottage, to which repast they did ample justice.

“I tell you what it is, Harry,” exclaimed Hazlehurst, setting down an empty tumbler, “if I eat any more luncheon, you will have to send me home in a wheelbarrow, for to walk I shall not be able--as it is, I feel like an alderman after a city feast.”

“In that case, you’d require a very capacious wheelbarrow, and I should pity the individual who had to trundle it. Come! finish the bottle--you won’t? then I will--and now we’ll be off--it strikes me, fatigue has something to do with it, as well as the luncheon; you’ve been smoke-drying in London, young man, till you’re out of condition,” returned Coverdale, laughing, as he remarked the stiff manner in which his friend rose and walked across the cottage.

Another hour’s striding through high grass and fern proved the correctness of this assertion; for Hazlehurst, unaccustomed to such severe exercise, began to show unmistakable symptoms of knocking up. His friend observed him with attention--“You really are tired, Arthur,” he said, good naturedly, “you’ll be fit for nothing to-morrow, if you walk much farther. Go back, Markum, and send one of your boys for the shooting pony; let him bring it to us at the bridge foot--I am going over Wild Acre farm next: I shall try through the spinney and round the large meadow, so you can cut across and join us again in half-an-hour--and Markum--wait one moment:--What sort of person is this man Styles? How should I know him if I should happen to run against him?”

“Well, he be a tall, broad-shouldered, roughish-looking chap, rather an orkard customer for to tackle, Mr. Coverdale, sir, and he generally have a sort of cross-bred, lurcher-like dog along with him, if you please Mr. ’Enry, that is, Mr. Coverdale, sir”--and so saying, Markum started at a swinging trot to execute his master’s wishes.

“The fellow looks as if he could go on at that pace for a fortnight without turning a hair,” observed Hazlehurst, pausing to wipe his brow; “I never saw such a cast-iron animal.”

“He’s at it every day, and that keeps him in good order,” replied Coverdale; “but I’ve walked him down before now, and should not wonder if I were to do so to-day--I’m just getting what the jockeys call my ‘second wind,’ and am good for the next four hours at least--ha! there’s a rabbit sitting, pull at it when I clap my hands.”

“It’s too long a shot for me,” replied Hazlehurst, “bag him yourself.”

Thus urged, Coverdale brought his gun to his shoulder and drew the trigger, but the cap was a bad one, and would not go off, and his second barrel being loaded with small shot, in the hope of picking up a landrail (of which Markum had reported the probable whereabouts), the rabbit skipped away uninjured. It had not proceeded ten paces, however, when it sprang into the air, and rolled over dead--at the same moment the report of a gun rang out from behind some low bushes, and a lurcher dog dashed forward, and picked up the defunct rabbit. Coverdale’s face flushed with anger, and hastily exchanging the defective percussion cap for a sound one, he raised his gun with the intention of shooting the dog; but, though quick-tempered, Harry was a thoroughly kind-hearted fellow, and a moment’s reflection caused him to relinquish his purpose; recovering his gun, he muttered--

“Poor brute, why should I kill it?--it’s not his fault, but his master’s.”

As he spoke a tall figure rose from behind the bushes, whence the shot had proceeded, and whistling to the dog, took the rabbit from him, and put it in the pocket of a voluminous-skirted shooting-jacket.

“That’s the redoubtable Mr. Styles, _in propriâ personâ_, I imagine,” observed Hazlehurst.

“And a cool hand he seems too,” returned Coverdale, scowling at the delinquent, who stood quietly reloading his gun, as though _he_ were “monarch of all he surveyed,”--“however, I’m not going to lose my temper about it; it’s a great object with me, just now, to conciliate all the neighbouring farmers.”

“Then are you going to give him _carte blanche_ to spiflicate rabbits when and where he likes?” inquired his friend.

“Not a bit of it!” was the reply, “I mean to put a stop once for all to such practices; but there is a _quiet_ way of managing these matters quite as effectual as putting oneself into a rage.”

“Don’t be a week about it, that’s all--come to the point at once, there’s a good fellow, for I want to knock over another rabbit or two before my Bucephalus arrives,” rejoined Hazlehurst.

Thus urged, Coverdale advanced towards the stranger, and slightly raising his wide-awake as he approached him, said with an air of Grandisonian politeness--“Mr. Styles I presume?”

“Yes, young man, my name’s Styles. What’s yourn?” was the unceremonious reply.

He does not know me, thought Harry: now for astonishing him--rather! “_My_ name, sir, is--ahem!--Henry Coverdale, of Coverdale Park, at your service.” He paused to watch the effect of this announcement. Ha! I thought so, he trembles, he is--why, confound the scoundrel! I do believe he’s grinning--he can’t have understood me--“My name is Coverdale, I say, sir.”

“Well then, Mr. Coverdale, if that’s your name, the sooner you take yourself back to Coverdale Park the better I shall be pleased, for I’m a shooting rabbits, and your jabbering scares the creeturs,” was the astounding rejoinder.

Coverdale could scarcely believe his ears; however, he contrived by a strong effort to subdue his rising passion, as he answered; “If, as I imagine, you are the son of old Farmer Styles, of Wild Acre, you must be aware, sir, that the farm your father rents is _my_ property, and that the rabbits you are shooting are _my_ rabbits; I must, therefore, trouble you to hand over the one you have just killed, and to abstain from shooting entirely, except on any occasion when I may invite you to join me, or otherwise give you permission.”

“I knows this, that father and I have got a thirty years’ lease to run, and that when I wants a day’s rabbiting, I means to take it, whether you likes it, or whether you doesn’t. Why, the old Admiral never said a word agen it; but he _was_ something like a gentleman, he was!” was the surly answer.

Harry’s eyes flashed fire. “Do you mean to insinuate that _I_ am _not_ one then, fellow?” he asked in a voice that trembled with passion.

“And suppose I does, what then? feller!” returned the other insolently.

“This!” was the reply, as springing hastily forward, Coverdale struck Styles so violent a blow on the cheek with the back of his open hand, that he staggered and nearly fell;--recovering himself with difficulty, and holding one hand to his injured jaw, he muttered with an oath, “If it wasn’t for the confounded guns, I’d give you the heartiest thrashing ever you had in your life.”

“Or get one yourself,” replied Harry, now thoroughly roused; “but, if you’re at all inclined that way, don’t disturb yourself about the guns; if you will discharge yours, I and my friend will do the same by ours, it’s only wasting a charge or two of powder”--and, as he spoke, he fired both barrels in the air. Styles paused a moment, to assure himself that no stratagem was contemplated, and then discharged his gun also, while Hazlehurst having glanced at his friend with an expression of the deepest astonishment, hastened to follow their example. At this moment the clatter of a horse’s hoofs was heard, and Markum, the keeper, cantered up on the shooting pony. “Ah! that’s right!” exclaimed Coverdale, who appeared suddenly to have regained his good temper--“tie the pony up to a tree and come here. Hazlehurst, you will pick me up if I require it, and Markum will do the same kind office by Mr. Styles, and I don’t intend him to have a sinecure either,” he added, _sotto voce_.

“You don’t mean seriously you’re going to fight the fellow:” inquired Hazlehurst.

“Indeed, I do, and, what’s more, nobody shall prevent me, unless he shows the white feather,” was the positive answer.

“But--but you’ll get knocked about so: besides, the brute’s a bigger, heavier man than you, and as strong as an elephant. Suppose he should injure you,” remonstrated Hazlehurst.

“He may if he can,” was the confident reply; “why Arthur, you’re as nervous as a girl; this is not the first time you’ve seen me use my fists, and I’ve taken lessons from Ben Caunt since the old Eton days.”

“Go in and win, then, if you _will_ make a fool of yourself,” rejoined Hazlehurst moodily, as he helped his friend to divest himself of his shooting-jacket and waistcoat.

“Now, Mr. Styles, I’m at your service,” remarked Coverdale, addressing his antagonist politely.

“So you mean fighting do you?” inquired Styles, half incredulously.

“I mean to try and give you the thrashing with which you have threatened me,” was the reply.

“And if you do, I’ll promise never to shoot another rabbit without your permission; but if I’m best man, blest if I don’t smash ’em when and where I likes,” was the rejoinder.

“It’s a bargain,” returned Coverdale, “so come on.”--As his antagonist bared his brawny arms and muscular throat, Harry felt that, if his skill were at all commensurate with his strength, he had cut himself out a somewhat troublesome task, and he began to own, in his secret soul, that Hazlehurst was right, and that he was about to do a very foolish thing. However, he had great confidence in his own skill and activity, and to these qualities did he trust to relieve him from his difficulties. If those amiable philanthropists, whose ranks, once numbering a large majority of the aristocracy and gentry of the land, have, as civilisation has spread, grown “small by degrees and beautifully less” (we allude to the “Patrons of the Ring,”)--if these humane and enlightened individuals expect a detailed account, _à la Bell’s Life_, of the “stunning mill between the Coverdale Cove and the Stylish Farmer,” they must be doomed to the pangs of disappointment; for unfortunately neither our taste, nor our talent, lies in that direction. Suffice it then to relate, that Mr. Styles’ science proving an article of the very roughest country manufacture, while his antagonist went to work with the skill and composure of a finished artist, Coverdale soon perceived that he had only to stop or avoid his opponent’s blows, to keep cool and to abide his time, in order to insure him an easy victory--and the event justified his expectations. After six rounds--in the course of which the farmer acquired two beautiful black eyes, while Coverdale had not got a scratch--time was called, and the seventh round commenced. Styles, smarting from the punishment he had received, and irritated to the highest degree by his adversary’s coolness, rushed on so furiously, and hailed such a shower of blows upon his opponent, that Coverdale found it would be impossible entirely to ward them off, and, not wishing to be disfigured by a black eye or flattened nose, was forced to exert himself in real earnest to endeavour to bring the battle to a conclusion;--watching his opportunity, therefore, he drew back; stopped a terrific hit cleverly with his left hand, and then flinging out his right arm straight from the shoulder, and bounding forward at the same moment, he struck his antagonist a crashing blow, which, catching him full on the side of the head, sent him down like a shot.

“That has terminated the case for the defendant, I expect,” observed Hazlehurst, sententiously, as, breathless and with bleeding knuckles, his friend seated himself on his extended knee--“he had had nearly enough before, and he has got rather too much now. You hit him an awful crack!”

“It was his own fault,” returned Coverdale. “I did not want to hurt the man if he would have fought quietly, and like a civilised Christian, instead of a raging lunatic;--but he’s only stunned--see he’s reviving already. Confound the fellow, his head is as hard as a cannon-ball, to which fact my knuckles bear witness.” So saying, Coverdale rose, and resuming his coat and waistcoat, approached his fallen foe, who, with his head leaning against Markum’s shoulder, was staring vacantly at the sky.

“He’s as unconscionable as a hinfant, Mr. Coverdale, sir: you’ve been and knocked his hintellects slap out of him, which only sarves him right, and is what all poachers ’andsomely desarves,” remarked the gamekeeper cheerfully.

“I know what will be the medicine to cure him,” exclaimed Hazlehurst, producing a pocket-flask, and applying it to the lips of the vanquished Styles. At first the patient seemed inclined to resist; but as soon as he tasted the flavour of the contents of the pocket-pistol, he raised his hand, and pushing aside Hazlehurst’a fingers, drained it to the bottom.

“Gently, my friend,” remonstrated the young barrister, “that’s Kinahan’s best whisky--fortunately I supplied the vacuum created at luncheon with spring water. Ah, I thought as much, that’s the true elixir vitæ,” he continued, as Styles, relinquishing the flask, sat up and began to stare wildly about him.

“Styles, my good fellow; how do you feel now? You were stunned, you know; but I shall be very sorry if I’ve hurt you,” observed Coverdale, good-naturedly. As he spoke, Styles turned and regarded him attentively, measuring his tall, active figure with his glance from top to toe. At length he muttered, “Well, I didn’t think he had it in him, that I didn’t;” he then rubbed his head, with a look of thorough perplexity, once more fixing his eyes on his late opponent, as if he were some strange monster wonderful to behold: having, apparently, satisfied himself that he was a real flesh and blood man, and not some newfangled, cast-iron boxing-machine, he turned to the gamekeeper, observing, “Markum, lend us a fin, old man, for I feels precious staggery-like, I can tell you. Your guv’nor hits hard.” On obtaining the required assistance, he rose, not without difficulty, approached Coverdale, and holding out a hand somewhat smaller than a shoulder of mutton, said, “Shake hands, sir, you’re a gentleman, and what’s far more in my eyes, you’re _a man_ every inch of you, and I humbly begs your pardon for insulting of you.”

“Say no more about it, my good friend,” returned Coverdale, heartily shaking his proffered hand, “we did not understand each other before, but we do now, and shall get on capitally for the future I don’t doubt.”

“I shan’t disturb your rabbits again, sir,” continued the penitent Styles, entirely subdued by Coverdale’s hearty manner, “and if the creeturs should do any damage to the crops, why I know a gentleman like you will bear it in mind on the rent-day.”

“Certainly,” was the eager reply; “my object now is to get up the game, and no tenant who assists me in this will find me a hard landlord.”

And so, after an amicable colloquy, they parted the best friends imaginable; Styles observing, as he turned to go, “I did not think there was a man living who could have sewn me up in ten minutes like that; but you are unaccountable quick with your fists, to be sure, Mustur Coverdale.”

“Pray Harry, is this to be considered a specimen of your ‘quiet manner’ with your tenantry?” inquired Hazlehurst dryly, as he bestrode the broad back of his shooting pony.

His friend coloured as he replied with a forced laugh, “Well, I must confess that for once in my life I a little lost temper;--but you see, old boy.” he continued, bringing his hand down upon Hazlehurst’s knee with a smack which caused that delicate youth to spring up in his saddle--“but you see _I managed to conciliate him after all_.”