Ferrets up to scratch

It was 1913. The grumbles of war echoed round Europe, but in the hamlet of Wellworth shots of another kind were being heard. Peregrine Lefevre and his son Brendon stood on one side of the warren, while the keepers of the estate covered the other. Two small boys, clad in thick boots, leather gaiters and cloth caps, slowly worked their way round the holes, slipping ferrets down into the earth.

Rafe Burdoch, destined to die on the battlefields of Mons, shot the rabbits as they jumped across the ride. One after another they rolled into the brambles. Before long the beatkeeper was having to hold the damascus barrels of his shotgun in a handkerchief to prevent his palms from being burned as the piece grew