Albert Edward and I were seated on a log outside the hen-house which
kennelled our pack when we perceived Algy, the A.D.C., tripping
daintily towards us. Albert Edward blew a kiss. "Afternoon, Algy.
How _chit_ he looks in his pink and all! Tell me, do people ever
mistake you for a cinema attendant and give you pennies?"
"Afternoon, Algy," said I. "Been spending a strenuous morn carrying
the old man's respirator--with his lunch inside?"
For answer Algy tipped me backwards off the log, and sitting down in
my place, contemplated our hounds for some seconds.
"And are these the notorious Hare-'em Scare-'ems?" he inquired.
I nodded. "Yessir; absolutely the one and only pack of harriers
operating in the war zone. Guaranteed gun-broke, shell-shocked,
shrapnel-pitted and bullet-bitten."
Algy sniffed. "What's that big brute over in the corner, he of the
crumpled face and barbed smile? Looks like a bloodhound."
"Is a bloodhound," said Albert Edward. "If you don't believe me step
inside and behave like raw rump steak for a moment."
Algy pointed his cane. "And that creature industriously delousing
itself? That's a wolf, of course?"
"Its wolfery is only skin-deep," said I. "A grey gander all but
annihilated it yesterday. In my opinion it's a sheep in wolf's
clothing."
Algy wagged his cane, indicating the remaining two couples.
"And these? What breed would you call them?"
Albert Edward grunted. "You could call them any breed you like and
be partly right. We've named them 'The Maconochies,' which, being
interpreted, meaneth a little of everything."
"And how many hares have you killed?" Algy inquired.
"We haven't exactly killed any as yet," said I, "but we've put the
breeze up 'em; their _moral_ is very low."
"Well, my bold Nimrods," said Algy, "I'm sorry to say the game is up."
"What do you mean by 'game'?" objected Albert Edward. "I've told you
before that this is a serious attempt to avert a plague of rodents.
Why, in Australia I've seen----"
Algy held up his hand.
"I know, I know. But some people who have not enjoyed your harrowing
Colonial experience are a trifle sceptical. Listen. Last evening,
as I was driving home with the old man through Vaux-le-Tour, whom
should I see but you two sportsmen out on the hillside riding down a
hare, followed at some distance by three mounted bargees----"
"The Padre, the Field Cashier and O.C. Bugs," Albert Edward
explained. "We're making men of 'em. Go on."
--"followed at a still greater distance," continued Algy, "by a
raging band of mongrels. By the way, don't you get your hunt the
wrong way round, the cart before the horse, so to speak? I always
thought it customary for the hounds to go first."
"In some cases the hare wouldn't know it was being hunted if they
did," said I. "This is one of them. Forge ahead."
"Well, so far so good; the old gent was drowsing in his corner and
there was no harm done."
"So you gave him a dig in the ribs, I suppose, and bleated, 'Oh, look
at naughty boys chasing ickle bunny wabbit!'" sneered Albert Edward.
Algy wagged his head. "Not me. You woke him up yourself, my son, by
tootling on your little tin trumpet. He heard it through his dreams,
shot up with a 'Good Lord, what's that?' popped his head out of the
window and saw the brave cavalcade reeling out along the sky-line
like a comic movie. He drank in the busy scene, then turned to me
and said----"
Albert Edward interrupted. "I know exactly what he said. He said,
'Algy, me boy, that's the spirit. _Vive le sport_! How it reminds
us of our young days in the Peninsular! Oft-times has our cousin of
Wellington remarked to us how Waterloo was won on the playing----'"
Algy cut off the flow and continued with his piece. "He said to me,
'God bless my soul, if those young devils aren't galloping a hare!'
I said, 'Sir, they maintain that they are doing good work by averting
a threatened plague of rodents, a state of affairs which has proved
very detrimental to the Anti-podes.'
"'Threatened plague of grandmothers!' replied the old warrior.
'They're enjoying themselves, that's what they're doing--having a
splendid time. Mind you, I've no objection to you young chaps
amusing yourselves _in secret_, but this is too damn flagrant
altogether. Just imagine the hullabaloo in the House if word of
these goings-on got home. "B.E.F. enjoying themselves! Don't they
know there's a war on? _Cherchez le général_ and off with his head!"
Trot round and see your dog-fancying friends and tell 'em that if
they're fond of good works I recommend crochet.' Thus the General.
I must be off now, got to take the old bird up to have a peep at the
War. Good-byee."
Algy tripped daintily off home again, twirling his cane and whistling
cheerfully. Sourly we watched him depart.
"I believe that youth positively revels in spreading gloom," Albert
Edward growled. "Oh, well, I suppose we'll have to get rid of the
dogs now. Orders is orders."
"But do you think they'll go?" I asked. "We've been feeding 'em
occasionally of late."
"We'll herd 'em down to where they can get wind of the infantry
cookers," said Albert Edward; "once they sniff the rare old stew
they'll forget all about us."
Accordingly an hour later we released our pack from the hen-house for
the last time. They immediately gave chase to an errant tabby
kitten, which threw off a noise like many siphons and shot up a tree,
baffling them completely. We speedily herded them out of the château
grounds, Albert Edward ambling in front, wringing mournful music out
of his horn, and I bringing up the rear, snapping my whip-cracker
under the sterns of the laggards. We had no sooner left the park for
the open grass country beyond when up jumped a buck hare, right from
under our feet, and away went the pack rejoicing, bass and falsetto.
Albert Edward tugged his excited mare to a standstill. "Look at
those blighters!" he shouted. "Hunting noses down in pukka style for
the first time, just because they know we can't follow them. Oh,
this is too much!"
"I don't see why we shouldn't follow them at a distance," said I.
"We can pretend there's no connection--there is no connection really,
we didn't lay 'em on. They're hunting on their own. We're just out
for a ride."
Albert Edward winked an eye at me and gave his mare her head. The
pack by this time was well across the plain, the wolf leading,
noisily supported by the Maconochies and the bloodhound. Thrice the
hare turned clear and squatted, but, thanks to the blood dog's
infallible nose, he was ousted each time and pushed on, failing
visibly. He made a sharp curve towards the windmill, and Albert
Edward and I topped the miller's fence in time to see the Maconochies
roll him over among the weeds. We also saw something on the highway
behind the mill which we had not previously noticed, namely a grey
Limousine. On a fallen tree by the wayside sat the General, his face
as highly coloured as his hat. Towards us down the garden-path
tripped Algy, twirling his cane and whistling cheerily. Albert
Edward groaned.
"Something in the demeanour of yon youth tells me he beareth our
death-warrants. Here, you hold the horses while I feed the
guillotine. This is by far, far the best thing that I have ever
done."
He slung his reins and tottered to his doom. I watched him approach
within five yards of the old man when a strange thing happened. The
General suddenly uttered a loud cry and, leaping to his feet,
commenced to dance up and down the road, tearing and belabouring
himself and swearing so outrageously that I had difficulty in holding
the horses. His chauffeur and Algy rushed to his side, and they and
Albert Edward grouped in a sympathetic circle while he danced and
raved and beat himself in their midst. Presently the air seemed to
be full of flying tunics, shirts, camisoles, etc., and a second later
I beheld the extraordinary spectacle of a Lieutenant-General dancing
practically nude (expecting for his cap and boots) in the middle of a
French highway, while two subalterns and a private smacked him all
over, and most heartily. For nearly a minute it continued, and then
he seemed to get himself under control and was led away by Algy to
his car, the chauffeur following, retrieving apparel off trees and
bushes. Albert Edward, one quivering smirk, wobbled up and took his
reins. "By Jove! saved again. He can't very well bite the hand that
spanked him, can he?"
"But what on earth was the matter?" I asked. "A fit, religious
mania, a penance--what?"
"He sat on a waspodrome," said Albert Edward, "and they got on his
tail."