Harry, by virtue of his training, knew a heap about animals. I am afraid we snared, in our time, more than one of the Squire’s rabbits, fixing loops of copper wire in the runs under the hedgerows. The “kill” went to Mrs. Harrier, whose poverty I used for salve to my conscience, and whose rather weak fondness accepted the tribute with some nervous deprecation. But it was not long before our mighty reverence for Mr. Sant, both as a gentleman and a sportsman, cured us of this temporary obliquity. A poacher gives no “law” to the game he kills; a gentleman does; we gave no “law”; _ergo_ we were poachers, _ergo_ we were not gentlemen. The revelation came upon us one day when our tutor was illustrating some forgotten parable. “The man of honour,” said he, “the God’s gentleman, don’t bet on a certainty, or run his fox with a line tied to his tail, or kill a disarmed enemy, or shoot his pheasant sitting. He sports for the glory of the battle, the test between skill and skill.” Harry and I looked at one another, and then down. After lessons he addressed me rather resentfully-- “It’s all very well for you, as was brought up to it.” “What do you mean?” I answered; “that you ain’t going to take the hint?” “If ever I snare another,” he said, growling, “may I be shot myself and nailed to a barn door!” “Well, then,” I said, “for all my being brought up to it, as you call it, you’re the better gentleman, because I was still in two minds about giving it up, it was such fun.” “You’ll have to,” he said. He was grown more loyal even than I to Mr. Sant. “O! shall I?” I retorted. “Who’s going to make me?” We were both bristling for a moment. Then Harry chuckled. “Guess you won’t catch a-many without me to help you, anyhow,” he said; which was so disgustingly true that I had to laugh in my turn.