'But would a quarter of a capsule be strong enough for each bird?'
One simply had to admire the man's nerve. It was dangerous enough to poach a single pheasant up in those woods at this time of year and here he was planning to knock off the bloody lot.
'A quarter would be plenty,' I said.
'You're sure of that?'
'Work it out for yourself. It's all done by bodyweight. You'd still be giving about twenty times more than is necessary.'
'Then we'll quarter the dose,' he said, rubbing his hands. He paused and calculated for a moment. 'We'll have one hundred and ninety-six raisins!'
'Do you realize what that involves?' I said. 'They'll take hours to prepare.'
'What of it!' he cried. 'We'll go tomorrow instead. We'll soak the raisins overnight and then we'll have all morning and afternoon to get them ready.'
And that was precisely what we did.
Now, twenty-four hours later, we were on our way. We had been walking steadily for about forty minutes and we were nearing the point where the lane curved round to the right and ran along the crest of the hill towards the big wood where the pheasants lived. There was about a mile to go.
'I don't suppose by any chance these keepers might be carrying guns?' I asked.
'All keepers carry guns,' Claud said.
I had been afraid of that.
'It's for the vermin mostly.'
'Ah.'
'Of course there's no guarantee they won't take a pot at a poacher now and again.'
'You're joking.'
'Not at all. But they only do it from behind. Only when you're running away. They like to pepper you in the legs at about fifty yards.'
'They can't do that!' I cried. 'It's a criminal offence!'
'So is poaching,' Claud said.
We walked on awhile in silence. The sun was below the high hedge on our right now and the lane was in shadow.
'You can consider yourself lucky this isn't thirty years ago,' he went on. 'They used to shoot you on sight in those days.'
'Do you believe that?'
'I know it,' he said. 'Many's the night when I was a nipper I've gone into the kitchen and seen my old dad lying face downward on the table and Mum standing over him digging the grapeshot out of his buttocks with a potato knife.'
'Stop,' I said. 'It makes me nervous.'
'You believe me, don't you?'
'Yes, I believe you.'
'Towards the end he was so covered in tiny little white scars he looked exactly like it was snowing.'
'Yes,' I said. 'All right.'
'Poacher's arse, they used to call it,' Claud said. 'And there wasn't a man in the whole village who didn't have a bit of it one way or another. But my dad was the champion.'