business of their lives. Hunting, shooting, and fishing are national assets within reasonable limitations. Long may they flourish! It is not the Squires who have imposed the tyranny of sport upon their people, but the plutocrats. Much undiluted nonsense has been written against hunting and shooting mainly by men who are grossly ignorant of their subject, bent upon citing extreme instances, which, when investigated, turn out to be absolutely exceptional. Editors of influential papers still encourage these gentlemen of the pen to attack dukes because deers forests in the Highlands are not planted to potatoes! Why not try oranges or bananas? Triumphant democracy still believes that it is more sportsmanlike to walk up birds and “tailor” them, instead of killing them as they are driven to the guns, flying fast and high overhead.

When this theme of the countryside first presented itself to me, I was tempted to take, as a type, what is called a “bad” landowner, one who neglects wilfully his responsibilities and duties. Unhappily, there are many such. But these petty tyrants are irreclaimable. Unquestionably they will be scrapped. And the sooner the better! Hope of salvation lies with men like Sir Geoffrey Pomfret, true lovers of the soil, but helplessly ignorant of its potentialities. In this category are not included the very few magnates who can and do employ experts to manage their estates. These few must make it their business to spread the knowledge for which, by costly experiments, they have paid a tremendous price. They, and they alone, are really qualified and able to put men upon allotments and demonstrate what intelligence and ingenuity can accomplish.

A last word. I wrote a book and a comedy entitled “Quinneys’.” The book appeared first and then the play. Some critics took for granted that the play was a dramatization of the novel. They happened to be wrong. The comedy was written before the book. In this case, my comedy “Fishpingle” was produced at the Haymarket Theatre in 1916. The novel will appear in 1917. I leave it to the same critics to guess which was written first.

HORACE ANNESLEY VACHELL.

Beechwood,

April, 1917.

FISHPINGLE

Fishpingle’s room at Pomfret Court challenged the interest of visitors to that ancient manor-house. It had been part of the original Pomfret House destroyed by fire in the first decade of the seventeenth century. Walls, floor, and ceiling were of stone quarried on the estate and laid by a master-builder, who, obviously, had revelled in the eccentricities of his craft. The general effect was that of a crypt, although a big window, facing south, and looking into a charming courtyard, had been cut out of the wall in 1830. This window, however, was Psuedo-Gothic in character, and not too offensive to the critical eye. And the furniture, also, waifs and strays from all parts of the house, stout time-mellowed specimens, presented a happy homogeneity, as if they, at least, were content with this last resting-place. A Cromwellian table upon which Cavaliers had cut their initials, faced the wide open fireplace. In the alcoves flanking the hearth stood two Queen Anne tallboys, much battered. Opposite to them was a Sheraton bookcase and bureau roughly restored by the village carpenter. The chairs were mostly eighteenth century. But oak, walnut and mahogany twinkled at each other harmoniously, polished by unlimited elbow-grease to a rich golden sameness of tint, the one tint which the faker of old furniture is, happily, unable to reproduce.

This room had been known as the Steward’s Room in the time of Sir Geoffrey Pomfret’s predecessor and father. Fishpingle came into possession when he was installed as butler long after Sir Geoffrey’s accession to the family honours. Some forty years had passed since then but the room retained its ancient uses, inasmuch as Fishpingle was recognised and even acclaimed as steward rather than butler, whose stewardship was the more real because it concerned itself loyally with cause and disdained effect. Sir Geoffrey boasted with good reason that he was the most approachable of squires. He may not have been aware that Fishpingle soaped the ways upon which importunate tenants slid from cottage to hall. Fishpingle served as an encyclopædia of information concerning the more intimate details of estate management. He kept a big diary. In the tallboys were filed papers and memoranda. Sir Geoffrey’s only son, Lionel, and Lady Pomfret shared a saying which had mellowed into a crusted family joke: “Fishpingle knows.”

Upon the stone walls were some fine heads of fallow deer, and half a dozen cases of stuffed birds and fish. Fishpingle, it might be inferred, was something of an angler and naturalist. A glance at his bookcase revealed his interest in horse and hound. Beckford was there, and Daniel’s “Rural Sports,” and Izaac Walton. In the place of honour shone conspicuous a morocco-bound, richly-tooled, gilded volume—“Stemmata Pomfretiana.” This genealogical work had been compiled, regardless of expense, by Sir Geoffrey’s grandfather, who had wasted time and money in pursuit of other and less harmless interests. It was he indeed, who encumbered a fine estate with a large and crippling mortgage.

Into Fishpingle’s room came Alfred Rockley, the first footman, carrying a handsome tankard in one hand and a “chammy” leather in the other. Alfred was a good-looking young fellow, racy of the Wiltshire soil, born and bred upon the Pomfret estates and quite willing to serve a master who lived upon those estates and did not own (or lease) a house in town. A reason for this contentment will appear immediately.

Alfred placed the tankard, bottom uppermost upon the Cromwellian table, and stared at it intently with a slight frown upon his ordinarily pleasant countenance. Then he picked it up, rubbed it softly, and began to inspect himself in its shining surface. This agreeable task so engrossed him that he failed to notice the sly approach of a maid-servant, who followed a tip-tilted nose into the room. The nose belonged to Prudence Rockley, a cousin of Alfred and the stillroom maid of the establishment. She carried a feather duster and a smile which, so Sir Geoffrey affirmed, was worth an extra five pounds a year in wages.

“Boo!” said she.

Alfred dropped the tankard and caught it again deftly. The Squire encouraged cricket. Prudence laughed. Alfred displayed some irritation.

“There you go again.”

He spoke with the Wilts accent, an accent dear to the Squire and his lady, as being the unmistakable voice of “his” people. Prudence shrugged a pretty pair of shoulders as she answered with the same rising inflection:

“I’ll go, Alfred, if so be as I’m disturbing you at your—work.”

“I came nigh on droppin’ the bloomin’ mug.”

As he spoke, he rubbed it caressingly, but his eyes dwelt even more caressingly upon the stillroom maid, who, noting his glance, began dusting the articles upon the table. As she moved from the young man, she murmured interrogatively:

“Why ever have ’ee brought it in here?”

“I’ll tell ’ee, if you’ll give us a kiss, Prue.”

“Don’t ’ee be silly!”

Alfred retorted with conviction.

“If it be silly to want to kiss ’ee, I be the biggest fule in the parish. ’Ee didn’t want coaxin’ las’ night, Prue.”

To this Prudence replied with alluring directness and