It was on just such a night as this that some years since a most successful raid was made upon this wood by a band of poachers coming from a distance.  The pheasants had been kept later than usual to be shot by a Christmas party, and perhaps this had caused a relaxation of vigilance.  The band came in a cart of some kind; the marks of the wheels were found on the snow where it had been driven off the highway and across a field to some ricks.  There, no doubt, the horse and cart were kept out of sight behind the ricks, while the men, who were believed to have worn smock-frocks, entered the wood.

The bright moonlight made it easy to find the pheasants, and they were potted in plenty.  Finding that there was no opposition, the gang crossed from the wood to some outlying plantations and continued their work there.  The keeper never heard a sound.  He was an old man—­a man who had been on the estate all his life—­and had come in late in the evening after a long round.  He sat by the fire of split logs and enjoyed the warmth after the bitter cold and frost; and, as he himself confessed, took an extra glass in consideration of the severity of the weather.

His wife was old and deaf.  Neither of them heard the guns nor the dogs.  Those in the kennels close to the cottage, and very likely one or more indoors, must have barked at the noise of the shooting.  But if any dim sense of the uproar did reach the keeper’s ear he put it down to the moon, at which dogs will bay.  As for his assistants, they had quietly gone home, so soon as they felt sure that the keeper was housed for the night.  Long immunity from attack had bred over-confidence; the staff also was too small for the extent of the place, and this had doubtless become known.  No one sleeps so soundly as an agricultural labourer; and as the nearest hamlet was at some distance it is not surprising that they did not wake.

In the early morning a fogger going to fodder his cattle came across a pheasant lying dead on the path, the snow stained with its blood.  He picked it up, and put it under his smock-frock, and carried it to the pen, where he hid it under some litter, intending to take it home.  But afterwards, as he crossed the fields towards the farm, he passed near the wood and observed the tracks of many feet and a gap in the fence.  He looked through the gap and saw that the track went into the preserves.  On second thoughts he went back for the pheasant and took it to his master.

The farmer, who was sitting down to table, quietly ate his breakfast, and then strolled over to the keeper’s cottage with the bird.  This was the first intimation:  the keeper could hardly believe it, till he himself went down and followed the trail of foot-marks.  There was not the least difficulty in tracing the course of the poachers through the wood; the feathers were lying about; the scorched paper (for they used muzzle-loaders), broken boughs, and shot-marks were all too plain.  But by this time the gang were well away, and none were captured or identified.