Danny the Champion of the World

'Danny did it!' my father said proudly. 'My son Danny is the champion of the world.'

Then Charlie said, 'I reckon pheasants is going to be a bit scarce up at Mr Victor Hazell's opening-day shoot tomorrow, eh, Willum?'

'I imagine they are, Charlie,' my father said. 'I imagine they are.'

'All those fancy folk,' old Charlie said, 'driving in from miles around in their big shiny cars and there won't be a blinking bird anywhere for them to shoot!' Charlie Kinch started chuckling and chortling so much he nearly drove off the track.

'Dad,' I said. 'What on earth are you going to do with all these pheasants?'

'Share them out among our friends,' my father said. 'There's a dozen of them for Charlie here to start with. All right, Charlie?'

'That suits me,' Charlie said.

'Then there'll be a dozen for Doc Spencer. And another dozen for Enoch Samways...'

'You don't mean Sergeant Samways?' I gasped.

'Of course,' my father said. 'Enoch Samways is one of my very oldest friends.'

'Enoch's a good boy,' Charlie Kinch said. 'He's a lovely lad.'

Sergeant Enoch Samways, as I knew very well, was the village policeman. He was a huge, plump man with a bristly black moustache, and he strode up and down our High Street with the proud and measured tread of a man who knows he is in charge. The silver buttons on his uniform sparkled like diamonds and the mere sight of him frightened me so much I used to cross over to the other side of the street whenever he approached.

'Enoch Samways likes a piece of roasted pheasant as much as the next man,' my father said.

'I reckon he knows a thin

g or two about catching 'em as well,' Charlie Kinch said.

I was astounded. But I was also rather pleased because now that I knew the great Sergeant Samways was human like the rest of us, perhaps I wouldn't be so scared of him in future.

'Are you going to share them out tonight, Dad?' I asked.

'Not tonight, Danny, no. You must always walk home empty-handed after a poaching trip. You can never be sure Mr Rabbetts or one of his gang isn't waiting for you by the front door to see if you're carrying anything.'

'Ah, but he's a crafty one, that Mr Rabbetts is,' Charlie Kinch said. 'The best thing is to pour a pound of sugar in the petrol tank of his car when he ain't looking, then he can't ever come snooping round your house later on. We always made sure to give the keepers a little sugar in their tanks before we went out on a poach. I'm surprised you didn't bother to do that, Willum, especially on a big job like this one.'

'What does the sugar do?' I asked.

'Blimey, it gums up the whole ruddy works,' Charlie Kinch said. 'You've got to take the entire engine to pieces before it'll go again after it's had the sugar. Ain't that right, Willum?'

'That's quite right, Charlie,' my father said.

We came off the bumpy track on to the main road and Charlie Kinch got the old taxi into top gear and headed for the village. 'Are you dumping these birds at Mrs Glipstone's place tonight?' he asked.

'Yes,' my father told him. 'Drive straight to Mrs Clipstone's.'

'Why Mrs Clipstone's?' I asked. 'What's she got to do with it?'

'Mrs Clipstone delivers everyone's pheasants,' my father said. 'Haven't I told you that?'

'No, Dad, you haven't,' I said, aghast. I was now more stunned than ever. Mrs Grace Clipstone was the wife of the Reverend Lionel Clipstone, the local vicar.

'Always choose a respectable woman to deliver your pheasants,' my father announced. 'That's correct, Charlie, isn't it?'

'Mrs Clipstone's a right smart lady,' Charlie said.

I could hardly believe what they were saying. It was beginning to look as though just about everybody in the entire district was in on this poaching lark.