by Roald Dahl
'Keepers too, I suppose.'
'Yes, but there's thick bushes all around and that helps.'
We were now advancing in a series of quick crouching spurts, running from tree to tree and stopping and waiting and listening and running on again, and then at last we were kneeling safely behind a big clump of alder right on the edge of the clearing and Claud was grinning and nudging me in the ribs and pointing through the branches at the pheasants.
The place was absolutely stiff with birds. There must have been two hundred of them at least strutting around among the tree-stumps.
'You see what I mean?' Claud whispered.
It was an astonishing sight, a sort of poacher's dream come true. And how close they were! Some of them were not more than ten paces from where we knelt. The hens were plump and creamy-brown and they were so fat their breast-feathers almost brushed the ground as they walked. The cocks were slim and beautiful with long tails and brilliant red patches around the eyes, like scarlet spectacles. I glanced at Claud. His big ox-like face was transfixed in ecstasy. The mouth was slightly open and the eyes had a kind of glazy look about them as they stared at the pheasants.
I believe that all poachers react in roughly the same way as this on sighting game. They are like women who sight large emeralds in a jeweller's window, the only difference being that the women are less dignified in the methods they employ later on to acquire the loot. Poacher's arse is nothing to the punishment that a female is willing to endure.
'Ah-ha,' Claud said softly. 'You see the keeper?'
'Where?'
'Over the other side, by that big tree. Look carefully.'
'My God!'
'It's all right. He can't see us.'
We crouched close to the ground, watching the keeper. He was a smallish man with a cap on his head and a gun under his arm. He never moved. He was like a little post standing there.
'Let's go,'1 whispered.
The keeper's face was shadowed by the peak of his cap, but it seemed to me that he was looking directly at us.
'I'm not staying here,' I said.
'Hush,' Claud said.
Slowly, never taking his eyes from the keeper, he reached into his pocket and brought out a single raisin. He placed it in the palm of his right hand, and then quickly, with a little flick of the wrist, he threw the raisin high into the air. I watched it as it went sailing over the bushes and I saw it land within a yard or so of two henbirds standing together beside an old tree-stump. Both birds turned their heads sharply at the drop of the raisin. Then one of them hopped over and made a quick peck at the ground and that must have been it.
I glanced up at the keeper. He hadn't moved.
Claud threw a second raisin into the clearing; then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth.
At this point, I saw the keeper turn away his head in order to survey the wood behind him.
Quick as a flash, Claud pulled the paper bag out of his pocket and tipped a huge pile of raisins into the cup of his right hand.
'Stop,' I said.
But with a great sweep of the arm he flung the whole handful high over the bushes into the clearing.
They fell with a soft little patter, like raindrops on dry leaves, and every single pheasant in the place must either have seen them coming or heard them fall. There was a flurry of wings and a rush to find the treasure.
The keeper's head flicked round as though there were a spring inside his neck. The birds were all pecking away madly at the raisins. The keeper took two quick paces forward and for a moment I thought he was going in to investigate. But then he stopped, and his face came up and his eyes began travelling slowly round the perimeter of the clearing.
'Follow me,' Claud whispered. 'And keep down.' He started crawling away swiftly on all fours, like some kind of a monkey.
I went after him. He had his nose close to the ground and his huge tight buttocks were winking at the sky and it was easy to see now how poacher's arse had come to be an occupational disease among the fraternity.
We went along like this for about a hundred yards.
'Now run,' Claud said.
We got to our feet and ran, and a few minutes later we emerged through the hedge into the lovely open safety of the lane.
'It went marvellous,' Claud said, breathing heavily. 'Didn't it go absolutely marvellous?' The big face was scarlet and glowing with triumph.
'It was a mess,' I said.
'What!' he cried.
'Of course it was. We can't possibly go back now. That keeper knows there was someone there.'
'He knows nothing,' Claud said. 'In another five minutes it'll be pitch dark inside the wood and he'll be sloping off home to his supper.'
'I think I'll join him.'
'You're a great poacher,' Claud said. He sat down on the grassy bank under the hedge and lit a cigarette.
The sun had set now and the sky was a pale smoke blue, faintly glazed with yellow. In the wood behind us the shadows and the spaces in between the trees were turning from grey to black.
'How long does a sleeping-pill take to work?' Claud asked.
'Look out,' I said. 'There's someone coming.'
The man had appeared suddenly and silently out of the dusk and he was only thirty yards away when I saw him.
'Another bloody keeper,' Claud said.
We both looked at the keeper as he came down the lane towards us. He had a shotgun under his arm and there was a black Labrador walking at his heels. He stopped when he was a few paces away and the dog stopped with him and stayed behind him, watching us through the keeper's legs.
'Good evening,' Claud said, nice and friendly.
This one was a tall bony man about forty with a swift eye and a hard cheek and hard dangerous hands.
'I know you,' he said softly, coming closer. 'I know the both of you.'
Claud didn't answer this.
'You're from the fillin'-station. Right?'
His lips were thin and dry, with some sort of a brownish crust over them.
'You're Cubbage and Hawes and you're from the fillin'-station on the main road. Right?'
'What are we playing?' Claud said. 'Twenty Questions?'
The keeper spat out a big gob of spit and I saw it go floating through the air and land with a plop on a patch of dry dust six inches from Claud's feet. It looked like a little baby oyster lying there.
'Beat it,' the man said. 'Go on. Get out.'
Claud sat on the bank smoking his cigarette and looking at the gob of spit.
'Go on,' the man said. 'Get out.'
When he spoke, the upper lip lifted above the gum and I could see a row of small discoloured teeth, one of them black, the others quince and ochre.
'This happens to be a public highway,' Claud said. 'Kindly do not molest us.'
The keeper shifted the gun from his left arm to his right.
'You're loiterin', 'he said, 'with intent to commit a felony. I could run you in for that.'
'No you couldn't,' Claud said.
All this made me rather nervous.
'I've had my eye on you for some time,' the keeper said, looking at Claud.
'It's getting late,' I said. 'Shall we stroll on?'
Claud flipped away his cigarette and got slowly to his feet. 'All right,' he said. 'Let's go.'
We wandered off down the lane the way we had come, leaving the keeper standing there, and soon the man was out of sight in the half-darkness behind us.
'That's the head keeper,' Claud said. 'His name is Rabbetts.'
'Let's get the hell out,' I said.
'Come in here,' Claud said.
There was a gate on our left leading into a field and we climbed over it and sat down behind the hedge.
'Mr Rabbetts is also due for his supper,' Claud said. 'You mustn't worry about him.'
We sat quietly behind the hedge waiting for the keeper to walk past us on his way home. A few stars were showing and a bright three-quarter moon was coming up over the hills behind us in the east.
'Here he is,' Claud whispered. 'Don't move.'
The keeper came loping softly up the lane with the dog padding quick and soft-footed at his heels, and we watched them through the hedge as they went by.
'He won't be coming back tonight,' Claud said.
'How do you know that?'
'A keeper never waits for you in the wood if he knows where you live. He goes to your house and hides outside and watches for you to come back.'
'That's worse.'
'No, it isn't, not if you dump the loot somewhere else before you go home. He can't touch you then.'
'What about the other one, the one in the clearing?'
'He's gone too.'
'You can't be sure of that.'
'I've been studying these bastards for months, Gordon, honest I have. I know all their habits. There's no danger.'
Reluctantly I followed him back into the wood. It was pitch dark in there now and very silent, and as we moved cautiously forward the noise of our footsteps seemed to go echoing round the walls of the forest as though we were walking in a cathedral.
'Here's where we threw the raisins,' Claud said.
I peered through the bushes.
The clearing lay dim and milky in the moonlight.
'You're quite sure the keeper's gone?'
'I know he's gone.'
I could just see Claud's face under the peak of his cap, the pale lips, the soft pale cheeks, and the large eyes with a little spark of excitement dancing slowly in each.
'Are they roosting?'
'Yes.'
'Whereabouts?'
'All around. They don't go far.'
'What do we do next?'
'We stay here and wait. I brought you a light,' he added, and he handed me one of those small pocket flashlights shaped like a fountain-pen. 'You may need it.'
I was beginning to feel better. 'Shall we see if we can spot some of them sitting in the trees?' I said.
'No.'
'I should like to see how they look when they're roosting.'
'This isn't a nature-study,' Claud said. 'Please be quiet.'
We stood there for a long time waiting for something to happen.
'I've just had a nasty thought,' I said. 'If a bird can keep its balance on a branch when it's asleep, then surely there isn't any reason why the pills should make it fall down.'
Claud looked at me quick.
'After all,' I said, 'it's not dead. It's still only sleeping.'
'It's doped,' Claud said.
'But that's just a deeper sort of sleep. Why should we expect it to fall down just because it's in a deeper sleep?'
There was a gloomy silence.
'We should've tried it with chickens,' Claud said. 'My dad would've done that.'
'Your dad was a genius,' I said.
At that moment there came a soft thump from the wood behind us.
'Hey!'
'Ssshh!'
We stood listening.
Thump.
'There's another!'
It was a deep muffled sound as though a bag of sand had been dropped from about shoulder height.
Thump!
'They're pheasants!' I cried.
'Wait!'
'I'm sure they're pheasants!'
Thump! Thump!
'You're right!'
We ran back into the wood.
'Where were they?'
'Over here! Two of them were over here!'
'I thought they were this way.'
'Keep looking!' Claud shouted. 'They can't be far.'
We searched for about a minute.
'Here's one!' he called.
When I got to him he was holding a magnificent cockbird in both hands. We examined it closely with our flashlights.
'It's doped to the gills,' Claud said. 'It's still alive. I can feel its heart, but it's doped to the bloody gills.'
Thump!
'There's another!'
Thump! Thump!
'Two more!'
Thump!
Thump! Thump! Thump!
'Jesus Christ!'
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
Thump! Thump!
All around us the pheasants were starting to rain down out of the trees. We began rushing around madly in the dark, sweeping the ground with our flashlights.
Thump! Thump! Thump! This lot fell almost on top of me. I was right under the tree as they came down and I found all three of them immediately - two cocks and a hen. They were limp and warm, the feathers wonderfully soft in the hand.
'Where shall I put them?' I called out. I was holding them by the legs.
'Lay them here, Gordon! Just pile them up here where it's light!'
Claud was standing on the edge of the clearing with the moonlight streaming down all over him and a great bunch of pheasants in each hand. His face was bright, his eyes big and bright and wonderful, and he was staring around him like a child who has just discovered that the whole world is made of chocolate.
Thump!
Thump! Thump!
'I don't like it,' I said. 'It's too many.'
'It's beautiful!' he cried and he dumped the birds he was carrying and ran off to look for more.
Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!
Thump!
It was easy to find them now. There were one or two lying under every tree. I quickly collected six more, three in each hand, and ran back and dumped them with the others. Then six more. Then six more after that.
And still they kept falling.
Claud was in a whirl of ecstasy now, dashing about like a mad ghost under the trees. I could see the beam of his flashlight waving around in the dark and each time he found a bird he gave a little yelp of triumph.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
'That bugger Hazel ought to hear this!' he called out.
'Don't shout,' I said. 'It frightens me.'
'What's that?'
'Don't shout. There might be keepers.'
'Screw the keepers!' he cried. 'They're all eating!'
For three or four minutes, the pheasants kept on falling. Then suddenly they stopped.
'Keep searching!' Claud shouted. 'There's plenty more on the ground!'
'Don't you think we ought to get out while the going's good?'
'No,' he said.
We went on searching. Between us we looked under every tree within a hundred yards of the clearing, north, south, east, and west, and I think we found most of them in the end. At the collecting-point there was a pile of pheasants as big as a bonfire.
'It's a miracle,' Claud was saying. 'It's a bloody miracle.' He was staring at them in a kind of trance.
'We'd better just take half a dozen each and get out quick,' I said.
'I would like to count them, Gordon.'
'There's no time for that.'
'I must count them.'
'No,' I said. 'Come on.'
'One ...
'Two ...
'Three ...
'Four ...'
He began counting them very carefully, picking up each bird in turn and laying it carefully to one side. The moon was directly overhead now and the whole clearing was brilliantly illuminated.
'I'm not standing around here like this.' I said. I walked back a few paces and hid myself in the shadows, waiting for him to finish.
'A hundred and seventeen ... a hundred and eighteen ... a hundred and nineteen ... a hundred and twenty!' he cried. 'One hundred and twenty birds! It's an all-time record!'
I didn't doubt it for a moment.
'The most my dad ever got in one night was fifteen and he was drunk for a week afterwards!'
'You're the champion of the world,' I said. 'Are you ready now?'
'One minute,' he answered and he pulled up his sweater and proceeded to unwind the two big white cotton sacks from round his belly. 'Here's yours,' he said, handing one of them to me. 'Fill it up quick.'
The light of the moon was so strong I could read the small print along the base of the sa
ck. J. W. CRUMP, it said. KESTON FLOUR MILLS, LONDON S.W. 17.
'You don't think that bastard with the brown teeth is watching us this very moment from behind a tree?'
'There's no chance of that,' Claud said. 'He's down at the filling-station like I told you, waiting for us to come home.'
We started loading the pheasants into the sacks. They were soft and floppy-necked and the skin underneath the feathers was still warm.
'There'll be a taxi waiting for us in the lane,' Claud said.
'What?'
'I always go back in a taxi, Gordon, didn't you know that?'
I told him I didn't.
'A taxi is anonymous,' Claud said. 'Nobody knows who's inside a taxi except the driver. My dad taught me that.'
'Which driver?'
'Charlie Kinch. He's only too glad to oblige.'
We finished loading the pheasants and then we humped the sacks on to our shoulders and started staggering through the pitch-black wood towards the lane.
'I'm not walking all the way back to the village with this.' I said. My sack had sixty birds inside it and it must have weighed a hundredweight and a half at least.
'Charlie's never let me down yet,' Claud said.
We came to the margin of the wood and peered through the hedge into the lane. Claud said, 'Charlie boy' very softly and the old man behind the wheel of the taxi not five yards away poked his head out into the moonlight and gave us a sly toothless grin. We slid through the hedge, dragging the sacks after us along the ground.
'Hullo!' Charlie said. 'What's this?'
'It's cabbages,' Claud told him. 'Open the door.'
Two minutes later we were safely inside the taxi, cruising slowly down the hill towards the village.
It was all over now bar the shouting. Claud was triumphant, bursting with pride and excitement, and he kept leaning forward and tapping Charlie Kinch on the shoulder and saying, 'How about it, Charlie? How about this for a haul?' and Charlie kept glancing back pop-eyed at the huge bulging sacks lying on the floor between us and saying, 'Jesus Christ, man, how did you do it?'
'There's six brace of them for you, Charlie,' Claud said. And Charlie said, 'I reckon pheasants is going to be a bit scarce up at Mr Victor Hazel's opening-day shoot this year,' and Claud said, 'I imagine they are, Charlie, I imagine they are.'
'What in God's name are you going to do with a hundred and twenty pheasants?' I asked.
'Put them in cold storage for the winter,' Claud said. 'Put them in with the dogmeat in the deep-freeze at the filling-station.'
'Not tonight, I trust?'
'No, Gordon, not tonight. We leave them at Bessie's house tonight.'
'Bessie who?'
'Bessie Organ.'
'Bessie Organ!'
'Bessie always delivers my game, didn't you know that?'
'I don't know anything,' I said. I was completely stunned. Mrs Organ was the wife of the Reverend Jack Organ, the local vicar.