got into the chicken yard. We have the resht secured in the
coach-house. Would ye flick a clout at Daisy, sir, where he is nosin'
in the bushes? There wasn't the thickness of a hair between Grandjer an
the ould cat's tail when she treed," confided Andy proudly. "Grandjer
is hard to bate, I tell ye. If he had to take afther Dandy, wouldn't he
have been the grand terrier afther rots?" he finished regretfully.
Grandjer, leaving the animated Marconi in the tree with sorrow, growled
out that it was a pleasure deferred as he yielded to persuasion and
trolled towards the yard.
"An' he'll trail a fox as good as a cat," said Andy still more proudly.
"We should be off now to be in time."
Barty climbed to the grey's back, age slipping from his withered
monkey-like little form as his knees gripped the saddle. In a new pink
coat, his little twisted face all aglow under its peaked cap, Darby
awoke to a second youth. He could still ride. He was a huntsman once
again, with the right to swear respectfully at his superiors and
fluently at offending equals. His old hands took up the reins until the
grey bent his neck proudly to the light touch, and slipped away with his
strong halt exaggerated by his light-hearted pride.
Carty landing with difficulty on to the suspicious chestnut, said
"C'o-op thee" knowingly and cracked his whip.
A certain number of hounds pattered out docilely, but Beauty, Grandjer
and Daisy sat down and waited for little Andy.
When the lash-stung chestnut had done two maddened circles round the
yard and upset Carty on to a barrow full of sand, men on foot used
blandishments and threats to induce the three to join the pack.
A small eager face peeped rapturously round a half-open door, for the
three were adepts at dodging blows and very few got home.
"They are looking for Andy," suggested Darby.
"Tell that shrimpeen Andy if he does not hurry along I'll tear the nose
from his face," yelled Barty at length, his dignity as huntsman spent.
"Didn't ye tell me not to move on until ye were moved on yerself?"
shrilled a reproachful voice. "An' I'll be late, says I, an' the price
of ye, says you, an' now the gaither on me leg is not even hooked up
yet."
Discomfited Barty said several things to himself; aloud, he told Andy
that if himself and his pony did not come on the minnit, they might
remain inside, an' them three wastrels of dogs with them.
This threat brought forth the Rat and Andy with a rush, the little
wicked-eyed pony tearing along with his jaws set and only stopping when
he saw hounds, the three renegades falling in happily.
"Didn't I say ye could not go without me?" said Andy. "And if anyone
does go without me it will be the Rot," he added a little anxiously, as
that animal reared abruptly and then dropped and kicked.
Barty, distinctly raffled, started again, the body of the crooked-legged
miscellaneous pack at his heels, with Andy and Carty behind, and behind
them the three rebels, now strolling along placidly.
Far off the sea could be seen, grey-blue under a grey-blue haze; before
them the hills bumped and twisted, with the narrow-slated banks dividing
the fields; here and there brown chasms from which turf had been cut,
and the coppery gleam of a stream, and further off some fair pastures
with the slates on the banks replaced by growth of gorse and fern.
Something had to hold the crumbling treacherous soil together. It took
an active horse and a quick jumper to slip over those banks without a
fall or scramble, unless they adopted the safer plan of some of the
heavy-weights, who stood on them until the fence crumbled into a brown
mould of safety.
Darby watched the final start with resignation and a grin. He foresaw
complications before him, but at least they were trying to keep things
together for the peppery brave little man who was out fighting for his
country, and they were not trying to ruin a really good pack.
"We'll pull down a few foxes if we have to get lassoes," said Darby
cheerily, going to put on his hunting cap.
The good side of his face was reflected in the glass. He was young and
strong despite his injuries; the cheer of a day's hunting was in his
blood, and for a moment a flash of hope lit his lurid young eyes. A
flash he so seldom saw, or allowed himself to see, that almost with a
snarl he turned so that the scarred cheek was reflected and buried the
gay hope almost as soon as it was born.
"You fool!" said Darby severely. "You rotten fool! To think!"
"Chicken or egg sandwich, sir?" the antiquated butler inquired in the
hall.
"Egg; and provision the car with the chickens. I may appease the pack
with them," said Darby grimly.
What a fine old place it was as he looked out across the wide park, the
big old trees flaunting in autumn glory, the sea just visible! He might
have been running down those steps lightly, with hopes which had not to
be smothered at birth and his heart. He might have loved the old place
doubly, because he could offer it as a home to a girl whom he cared for;
instead of--his hand touched his useless leg; he leant on his stick.
"But, hang it, if it were so, I should have been in France and probably
crippled for good," said Darby, trying to put care away.
It was on mornings such as these, when he could enjoy part of life, that
Care clung closer. He could ride, but must call whole men to open gates
or catch his horse for him. He could feel the rush of the wind on his
face and the horse between his knees, see hounds hunt, look for his
turns and his luck as other men did; but at the finish, when men jumped
from their tired horses, he must climb down laboriously, feel the glow
dying as he limped to his car or into some house to have tea.
He met the post-boy on the avenue and found a short letter from the
Master.
"Keep it going if you can. We're having poor hunting here; but back the
old country to kill its fox in the end, for all the croppers they'll
take on the way."
Darby drove fast along the narrow bumpy roads, drawing a distinct breath
of relief when he saw Barty and the hounds demurely still upon a hill
and quite a crowd of people waiting.
There was a lack of smartness about the assemblage. Mrs. O'Gorman from
the Bank had only half clipped her stout roan. She said that it seemed
wrong to turn out a horse just the same as one would in peace times.
There were no new habits and half the familiar faces were gone. Mr.
Hefferty, the local dealer, who generally had a string out--at least
four horses, shaven and tidied and gingered until their tails stood out
as banners, and every semblance of a good point was emphasized--now had
only one, a light whity grey with big feet, an animal which would have
to be dyed if it ever went on active service.
Someone who had seen a paper was immediately surrounded. How was it?
What was the news? Good or bad?
These were the days when people hoped that war could not go on, that it
would end suddenly and dramatically because it was too huge to endure;
when everyone forgot that its very hugeness would keep it going until
money and men failed.
Old Captain Moore, who was fiercely anxious to do something, was even
explaining to people at what point our troops would enter Berlin. He
had been there twice on a Cook's tour, and he meant to go for another
directly there was peace. He had even written about his ticket. Mr.
O'Gorman was concerned as to the choice of prisons for the Kaiser and
personally blamed that excitable Emperor for the feverish price of oats.
"Spoiling even what's left to us over here!" he said. "Hope they'll give
him black bread when they shut him up."
A thousand places for victory were discussed and argued over.
Everything was hopeful and nothing ominous of defeat or even of check.
Antwerp, after all, was only part of unfortunate Belgium, and its fall
made the air clearer.
The communiques were things to be hung over, relied on, and devoured.
People believed then that every word from Berlin was an invention.
Then the small field turned its thoughts from war and looked at the
hounds.
"Any more adventures, Barty?" Darby asked softly.
"There is one thing, sir." Barty returned an indirect reply. "That
hunt or no, they'll get a bit to ate another mornin'. We only tore them
off the back of Carty's mother's pig, an' they had three chickens gone
from me own aunt while you'll be clappin' an eyelid."
Matilda Freyne asked Dearest George if he thought it would be wise to
get up, and was then lifted to the saddle without making any effort to
assist in the proceedings. Once there, she consulted Dearest George as
to her straps and the adjustment of her reins, and was placidly happy on
her quiet horse.
Gheena had forgotten all wars as she endeavoured to persuade her brown
mare not to buck. It was so good to be out with any kind of hounds
again.
George Freyne having taken his new hunting cap out of a hat-box and
adjusted it with pride, shouted to Darby to wait for him, and grew
irritable when Darby looked reproachfully at his watch.
"If you had a wife to get fixed up and the hang post late on account of
the hang war! Hunting horn only just here in a box not even opened.
Here you, Phil, are there straps for it and for the case?"
"They are, sir," said Phil briefly.
Dearest George tore feverishly at the nailed box, injured one of his
fingers, and having sucked it noisily, mounted his horse, ordering Phil
to open the hang thing and fix it on.
By this time the majority of the small field had collected by the
Freynes' motor, feeling that George Freyne was to blame for keeping them
waiting and looking at him reproachfully. Mr. O'Gorman remarked "Twenty
past" just as the lid of the box cracked open.
"And you'd like it to be forty past if you were late yourself,
O'Gorman," snapped Dearest George bitterly. "I'll move on without you
often enough. How is a joint master to go out with nothing to play on,
blow at--er--sound for his hounds, I should like to know?"
Here Darby wanted patiently to know if Phil was digging trenches or only
opening a box.
"I'd say it will not fit on aisy," said Phil dubiously, coming round.
He held up a brightly new Klaxon and scratched his head with his free
hand.
"I--Matilda!" yelled George Freyne hopelessly.
"Dearest George," said Matilda placidly.
"I--told you--a hunting horn--weeks ago! Years ago! There was a delay
in sending it."
"You said the very loudest one, Dearest George," said Matilda
pleasantly. "All the stores were short owing to the war. I did wonder
what you could fix it on to, but as you said a whistle too. Isn't there
a whistle in the box, Phil?"
"Move on, Barty," said Darby with decision.
*CHAPTER VII*
Darby Dillon left his fellow master glaring at the Klaxon horn and rode
up to the hounds. There was no eager greeting to him of quick yaps and
wagging sterns, but rather a distinctly critical surveillance, and
liquid eyes looking for the men on foot whom the pack knew.
Seen gathered together, the scratch pack were not prepossessing.
Darby grinned softly at the varieties of hound types, at Greatness's
crooked legs and Daisy's snub nose, and especially at the crop-tailed
Grandjer, so nearly related to a terrier.
A fringe of excited onlookers, previous followers of the foot dogs,
gathered close, commenting eagerly.
"That is Spinsther, that ye reared, Marty. D'ye call to mind the day he
took the trail down be Conellan's dykes, an' we all at the wrong side?"
Marty rubbed his head and recalled the incident.
"An' when he had his pup, didn't he tear meself too," remarked Marty
sourly. "A pair of trouser I had on but eighteen months near pulled off
me. He is a savage soort of a dog that Spinsther, an' I to rear him an'
all with lashin's of milk an' male."
"An' Beauty, he has the nose. When the thrail was losht down anear the
say, an' the other dogs on the back thrail, wasn't it Beauty thrun a
yowl of his own?"
"Grandjer was the next," put in little Andy, "or maybe the firsht; but
Papa had his mind med up he was only thrailin' old Mrs. Day's cat,
Grandjer bein' but a puppy then."
"They do be talkin' of the Hunt Club hounds, but we have one fox an' his
pups," said the covert keeper. "Five of them no less, an' thank God ye
are out to hunt them."
Darby gathered the pack and waved his hand. The hounds looked up at the
passage of the dog-skin glove through the air with mild curiosity.
Darby waved it again; he uttered somewhat awkwardly a variety of hunting
cries.
"Oh, give them a whack, you two, Barty," he said helplessly. "Thrash
them in." Carty raised his whip, a motion immediately followed by a
frantic bolt of the chestnut round the field.
"Me Dada 'd get up on the furry banks if he did hunt a covert on the
sly," piped Andy; "make a lep in himself till all 'd be afther him.
Onst they've a taste of the thrail ye can lave them."
Greatness, Daisy and Home Ruler, an enormous tan bitch with one ear,
were sneaking off to draw for themselves; the place might be alive with
hares.
Andy whipped two back, and Darby yelled at Carty to follow Home Ruler.
"Get round them, you--idiot!" he roared.
Carty, soliloquizing feverishly that it was the world he would be round
if the chestnut carried on them games, or maybe chargin' Germans before
he knew what was what, endeavoured to steer his nervous steed in the
direction of Home Ruler's tan hind-quarters.
But it was Gheena who drove the prodigal back to fox-hunting.
The Field having come out, expected, as fox-hunters will, that this
motley collection were to be as well ordered and obedient as Tom
Lindlay's pack. Observing the difficulties, they decided, very audibly
that it was perhaps better to leave a country alone than to botch it in
this fashion; and as it would evidently be of very little use to come
out riding, better try on foot.
Mr. O'Gorman, who had, almost forgotten what his feet looked like, said
"Yes," briskly, "or in a motor-car."
"You'll have to get off and go in, George," said Darby. "I can't go
crippling and hobbling up that bank."
"An' if meself comes along with ye," said Andy. "Blow a blasht on ye're
bugle, yer honor, now to hearten them."
George Freyne looked heatedly at the empty case, got down with a grunt,
and pompously marched toward the bank.
Violet Weston, brightly pretty in a light fawn coat and completely
irregular soft tweed hat, pushed the tall bay through the crowd,
watching critically. She was followed by Mr. Keefe, who also wore a
hunting cap, quite considering that he was one of the Masters as he had
helped with the consultations.
George Freyne clambered on to the bank, calling lustily.
"You must go down within." Andy leapt up and disappeared into the
gorse, followed by his three faithful hounds. "Ye must go within like
me Dada."
"Yerra, push him out! Hurreh in with ye! Gan out of that, Spinsther!
Hurreh in along with ye! Nose him up!"
The foot people arrived breathless and rushed to the rescue.
"It is the prickles they are afeard of. Nose him out, Daisy, ye
schamer! Blow a blasht on ye're bugle, sir, and over with ye; they'll
folly."
George Freyne's new whistle rang shrilly clear, but he stayed on the
bank.
"Get into it, Freyne. Here, I'll try my horn," said Keefe.
"If you've a hunting cap on you get in yourself," bellowed Dearest
George irritably. "Come along and get in; if you can blow that--do!"
Darby Dillon rocked on his horse as Keefe, stout and pink, outlined in a
very tight pink coat, made importantly for the bank, and standing there,
brought forth a husky wheeze of sound, followed by an impotent broken
squeak.
"Whip them on to us now!" shouted Keefe. "Now! What is the 'Come in'
note, Dillon?--which, this or that?"
"He is just like a pink puff-ball," gasped Gheena, wiping her eyes.
"Just! Oh, Darby, what is the 'Come in' note?"
"If he expects me to blow in or out now, I can't," gulped Darby. "Blow
away yourself, Keefe; you'll strike it in time."
"If he stopped that poisonous row, they'd come to my whistle," shouted
Dearest George, stuttering furiously.
"They have the thrail!" shrilled a small voice wildly.
At that moment Beauty flung a long throaty yowl; Grandjer, dashing to
her, echoed and confirmed it with his nondescript yelp. Beauty spoke
again emphatically, and now Daisy threw her tongue.
Every hound outside quivered to the sound.
"Hurreh! Hurreh! Hurreh! Folly on there! Nose him out! In with ye
all! Get on to it, Parnellite! Schald to ye, Spinsther! Hurreh!
Hurreh! Over! Over!"
A mixed pack of hounds and followers dashed towards the cover. There
was no hanging back now. Home Ruler's huge body caught Dearest George's
legs; his footing was precarious. Spinster followed the charge. Leaping
to get clear, George Freyne lost his balance, grabbed at Keefe, and the
two went face foremost into the thick gorse, floundering there
furiously.
"Well done! Success! Back him up, Colleen! Hurreh on!" shrieked a
jealous onlooker.
"Andrew McCarty, if you knocked me in, I will kill you," said George.
Freyne as he emerged, a new Venus, from the sea of prickles.
"I did not, but the dogs," returned Andrew contemptuously. "An'
shouldn't ye be within? God save us! I'd say the inspector had a
wakeness got; he is schriekin' terrible!" Keefe's face, convulsed,
appeared above the gorse.
"Just above the boot," howled Keefe, struggling upwards. "A devil of a
dog with a black face. I fell on him."
"That was Spinsther," said Andrew McCarty. "It was only agitayted he is
to catch the fox. He manes no harm. It was him tore me own trousers;
but he had pups the same time."
"To the bone," moaned Keefe, as he floundered to the bank. "An infernal
hound, Dillon, has bitten me to the bone."
"All that way," said Darby with interest. "Did he leave the tooth in,
Keefe?"
"Lord, they're at him. Yoi! Yoi! Yoi there! Hurreh! Hurreh! Nose
him out! Rout him out!" yelled the crowd. "Forrard on! There's
tongues for ye."
Ten couples of hounds, most of them throwing the long harrier yowl,
Grandjer's shrill tongue audible above the rest. It was music in the
still misty day. Hats were crammed down, reins tightened; the small
Field surged to the edge of the gorse, peering in.
Two cubs and an old fox doubled and twisted in the thick gorse, the
music echoed and deepened.
"Watch them, Barty; see to the gap. I've no breath," said Darby. "Get
on your horse, George. You took covert gallantly."
"_If_ it was that Andrew McCarty," said Dearest George murderously. "Am
I all pricked, Matilda? Am I? Have you looked at my face?" exploded
George mildly, removing a handkerchief dotted with blood.
"I was listening to the hounds and thinking how nicely you jumped in,
Dearest George," said Matilda mildly. "But when you came out, of course
I asked you why you did it. Oh, he's away! You are slightly pricked."
The old fox leapt lightly into view, ran for a few yards, was headed by
the rush of the crowd, and disappeared back into covert.
"Hi! You!" Darby swung round. "You set of spoilsports! Think I can't
go for you because they're only harriers. If you don't keep away from
that gap and stay where you're told, I'll go and hunt hares with 'em."
"Think I didn't see you, O'Loughlin, away for a start! You set of----"
"It is not too bad at all for the sthart," murmured Barty approvingly.
"Get over to this end, please, gentlemen," he roared himself. "Keep
your eye on the gap, Mr. Keefe."
Harold Keefe bound a blue-and-white check silk handkerchief round his
leg and consulted Mrs. Weston as to hydrophobia. He was faintly sulky
when she took no notice, her bright blue eyes fixed excitedly on the
rustling gorse.
"He is away!" Darby darted along the edge of the gorse. "Away just
outside the fence. Blow, sir, blow them out! God save us alive! look
at that!"
For at that moment Grandjer, with a stout cub firmly clamped between his
jaws, leapt over the bank, and putting the limp little beast down,
commenced to worry it.
"Didn't I tell ye Grandjer was the dog?" screamed Andy, flying out. "He
is thrackin' that one now since the commincemint, an' never left him."
"We'll have to break this one up, then, I suppose," said Darby. "We
must do the right thing."
Grandjer worried and growled and tore. He was screened from view by a
big stone and a clump of brambles.
"He will ate it be himself," said Andy. "Do ye go afther the ould fox,
sir; none'll know."
Darby looked at Barty, and Barty grinned.
"Be the time someone is bit getting away the fox, the other one'll be at
Durra," he whispered. "And why should we lose a hunt acclimatizing this
lot to do right, when, with the help of God, the Kayser'll be dead and
our own hounds out again next October?"
"But," said Darby, "well, then. Forrard on!"
"He won't ate it all," said Andy. "He'll tiren, an' unless Mr. Keefe
bein' bit already wouldn't so much mind another, I'd say whoever went to
take it'd get a quare nip."
"Toot" went Darby's horn. "Shrr," George Freyne's whistle. A grating
gurgle emanated from Keefe. Slowly hounds dribbled out, but surely,
everyone hunting. When he got three couple together, Darby went away,
wondering vaguely if he would ever see any of the other which was still
conscientiously towling and yowling in covert.
Home Ruler, distantly related to a deer-hound, could travel; she flung
herself on the line, with Beauty close behind and Greatness yowling
joyously.
Grandjer, finding his fox high and tough, especially as there was no one
to dispute it with him, picked up his kill and galloped in pursuit of
the charge.
The fox had been gone some time, and scent, the mysterious, was not too
good. Home Ruler, dashing light-heartedly in front, threw up her big
head suddenly. The remainder of the pack, all hunting zealously, towled
into view, coming undisturbed through the horses. Grandjer dropped his
cub and galloped down to his companions. It was his sharp yap which
rang out as he passed Home Ruler and spoke on the line. Then "Yow-Ow,"
the long-drawn musical harrier notes, as at a fair pace they pressed on.
The going was light on the top of the hill, the banks fair and sound.
What matter if Dandy's pup was leading, his docked stump quivering! They
were hunting. Slowly but surely they dipped into Durra, a big place in
a hollow, and circled round it until it was evident that the unpressed
fox had gone back to covert.
"We'll be a long time killing one this way," remarked Darby, watching
the pack spread out as they checked.
"And if we do not kill, we are practically of no use." George Freyne
would have been supremely happy if his face had not worried him. He
knew the line of gaps coming across; he had ridden, as became a Master,
in the van, and he was now wondering if blowing his whistle would be a
good thing just to remind people of his position.
"The men up at the covert said they were looking for a kill, Darby."
"And we might have had one," said Darby, "if we'd tackled that cub." He
looked guiltily at his companions and Barty coughed.
"Beauty has it! Listen to her now! Hurreh on, Beauty! All to Beauty!"
yelled little Andy.
The child had lost his cap, his hands were bleeding. The Rat had gone
exactly as he chose, but Andy had in these crowded minutes tasted
nectar.
That ecstatic jump on to the high bounds bank, the crawl along the top,
all but swept off by a branch, the blissful leap straight off the road
over a coped wall, with everyone else going in at the gate, the bumping
rush through the crowd at the beginning--all these things had gone as
wine to young Andy's head.
Might the war go on for ever if it meant his having the Rat to ride on.
Violet Weston, a little ruffled, a brickish red forge showing through
the powder on her cheeks, rode up close to Keefe.
"This horse makes a very curious sound when going up a hill," she said a
little coldly, "and he seems to find it hard also to do so; also, he
stumbled at the banks."
"You--er--rode him at a very high place," said Keefe a little nervously.
"That bounds fence is full of rabbit-holes."
"Well, he is very nice to look out, but I say----" Violet Weston turned
to beam at Stafford.
"I was just saying this horse makes such a funny gurgle running up
hill," she said, "and I shall be disappointed if he is not really a good
hunting animal. After paying sixty pounds, too, for the thing. What is
that noise, Mr. Stafford?"
"Intake or out-take?" said Stafford, his eyes glued to the persevering
Beauty, who was feathering on to the line, with Grandjer dashing wildly
about close to her.
"Oh, intake, certain," said Mrs. Weston grimly; and she added rapidly:
"What does that mean? It's a shrill noise."
"He was a whistler, an' he a colt," remarked a voice close by. "An' if
you do not aise him up the hills, miss, he will tangle in the banks an'
his breath gone from him."