Game to them meant birds, and birds only. Furthermore, they
had been solemnly assured by human persons in whom they had the utmost
confidence, that but one sequence of events was permissible or even
thinkable in the presence of game. The Dog at first intimation by scent
must convey the fact to the Man, must proceed cautiously to locate
exactly, must then stiffen to a point which he must hold staunchly, no
matter how distracting events might turn out, or how long an interval
might elapse. The Man must next walk up the birds; shoot at them,
perhaps kill one, then command the Dog to retrieve. The Dog must on no
account move from his tracks until such command is given. All the affair
is perfectly simple; but quite inflexible. Any variation in this
procedure fills the honest bird dog's mind with the same horror and
dismay experienced by a well-brought-up young man who discovers that he
has on shoes of the wrong colour. It isn't done, you know.
Consider, then, Wayward and Girlie in a country full of game birds. They
quarter wide to right, then cross to left, their heads high, their
feather tails waving in the most approved good form. When they find
birds they draw to their points in the best possible style; stiffen
out--and wait. It is now, according to all good ethics, up to the Man.
And the Man and his companions go right on by, paying absolutely no
attention either to the situation or one's own magnificent piece of
work! What is one to conclude? That our early training is all wrong?
that we are at one experience to turn apostate to the settled and only
correct order of things? Or that our masters are no gentlemen? That is a
pretty difficult thing, an impossible thing, to conclude of one's own
master.
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