Danny the Champion of the World

'Do you know my old dad actually used to keep a flock of prime roosters in the back-yard just to practise on,' my father said. 'A rooster is very much like a pheasant, you see. They are equally stupid and they like the same sorts of food. A rooster is tamer, that's all. So whenever my dad thought up a new method of catching pheasants, he tried it out on a rooster first to see if it worked.'

'What are the best ways?' I asked.

My father laid a half-eaten sandwich on the edge of the sink and gazed at me in silence for about twenty seconds.

'Promise you won't tell another soul?'

'I promise.'

'Now here's the thing,' he said. 'Here's the first big secret. Ah, but it's more than a secret, Danny. It's the most important discovery in the whole history of poaching.'

He edged a shade closer to me. His face was pale in the pale yellow glow from the lamp in the ceiling, but his eyes were shining like stars. 'So here it is,' he said, and now suddenly his voice became soft and whispery and very private. 'Pheasants', he whispered, 'are crazy about raisins.'

'Is that the big secret?'

'That's it,' he said. 'It may not sound very much when I say it like that, but believe me it is.'

'Raisins?' I said.

'Just ordinary raisins. It's like a mania with them. You throw a few raisins into a bunch of pheasants and they'll start fighting each other to get at them. My dad discovered that forty years ago just as he discovered these other things I am about to describe to you.'

My father paused and glanced over his shoulder as though to make sure there was nobody at the door of the caravan, listening. 'Method Number One', he said softly, 'is known as The Horse-hair Stopper.'

'The Horse-hair Stopper,' I murmured.

'That's it,' my father said. 'And the reason it's such a brilliant method is that it's completely silent. There's no squawking or flapping around or anything else with The Horse-hair Stopper when the pheasant is caught. And that's mighty important because don't forget, Danny, when you're up in those woods at night and the great trees are spreading their branches high above you like black ghosts, it is so silent you can hear a mouse moving. And somewhere among it all, the keepers are waiting and listening. They're always there, those keepers, standing stony-still against a tree or behind a bush with their guns at the ready'

'What happens with The Horse-hair Stopper?' I asked. 'How does it work?'

'It's very simple,' he said. 'First, you take a few raisins and you soak them in water overnight to make them plump and soft and juicy. Then you get a bit of good stiff horse-hair and you cut it up into half-inch lengths.'

'Horse-hair?' I said. 'Where do you get horse-hair?'

'You pull it out of a horse's tail, of course. That's not difficult as long as you stand to one side when you're doing it so you don't get kicked.'

'Go on,' I said.

'So you cut the horse-hair up into half-inch lengths. Then you push one of these lengths through the middle of a raisin so there's just a tiny bit of horse-hair sticking out on each side. That's all you do. You are now ready to catch a pheasant. If you want to catch more than one, you prepare more raisins. Then, when evening comes, you creep up into the woods, making sure you get there before the pheasants have gone up into the trees to roost. Then you scatter the raisins. And soon, along comes a pheasant and gobbles it up.'

'What happens then?' I asked.

'Here's what my dad discovered,' he said. 'First of all the horse-hair makes the raisin stick in the pheasant's throat. It doesn't hurt him. It simply stays there and tickles. It's rather like having a crumb stuck in your own throat. But after that, believe it or not, the pheasant never moves his feet again! He becomes absolutely rooted to the spot, and there he stands pumping his silly neck up and down just like a piston, and all you've got to do is nip out quickly from the place where you're hiding and pick him up.'

'Is that really true, Dad?'

'I swear it,' my father said. 'Once a pheasant's had The Horse-hair Stopper, you can turn a hosepipe on him and he won't move. It's just one of those unexplainable little things. But it takes a genius to discover it.'

My father paused, and there was a gleam of pride in his eyes as he dwelt for a moment upon the memory of his own dad, the great poaching inventor.

'So that's Method Number One,' he said.

'What's Number Two?' I asked.

'Ah,' he said. 'Number Two's a real beauty. It's a flash of pure brilliance. I can even remember the day it was invented. I was just about the same age as you are now and it was a Sunday morning and my dad comes into the kitchen holding a huge white rooster in his hands. 'I think I've got it,' he says. There's a little smile on his face and a shine of glory in his eyes and he comes in very soft and quick and puts the bird down right in the middle of the kitchen table. 'By golly,' he says, 'I've got a good one this time.'

' 'A good what?' Mum says, looking up from the sink. 'Horace, take that filthy bird off my table.'

'The rooster has a funny little paper hat over its head, like an ice-cream cone upside down, and my dad is pointing to it proudly and saying, "Stroke him. Go on, stroke him. Do anything you like to him. He won't move an inch." The rooster starts scratching away at the paper hat with one of its feet, but the hat seems to be stuck on and it won't come off. "No bird in the world is going to run away once you cover up its eyes," my dad says, and he starts poking the rooster with his finger and pushing it around on the table. The rooster doesn't take the slightest bit of notice. "You can have this one," he says to Mum. "You can have it and wring its neck and dish it up for dinner as a celebration of what I have just invented." And then straight away he takes me by the arm and marches me quickly out of the door and off we go over the fields and up into the big forest the other side of Little Hampden which used to belong to the Duk