We have been walking miles along the banks of a stream, crossing
difficult stepping-stones, climbing over banks eight feet high [thank
goodness, impossible for horses], with drops on the other side, and
occasional jumpings down, which shake your teeth, but still you land on
_your own_ legs, and if you fall you haven't got a brute on the top of
you, or rolling over you, or kicking out your brains with his hind
hoofs. We number about sixty in the Field. The shaggy, rough hounds are
working up-stream, swimming and trotting, and stopping to examine the
surface of any boulder which strikes their noses as having been lately
the temporary resting-place of an otter. A few people on horseback are
proceeding, slowly in single file, along the bank. Difficult work for
them. Ladies, too, are on foot, and all going along as pleasantly as
possible. Suddenly a cry--a large dog is seen shaking its head wildly,
and rubbing his front paws over his ears--another dog is rolling on the
bank--another plunges into the river furiously, also shaking his head as
if he was objecting to everything generally, and would rather drown than
change his opinions.
Another cry.
Horses plunging--one almost into the river--shrieks of
ladies--exclamations from pedestrians--the field is scattered--some
attempt to ford the river--some jump right in--some on horseback cross
it shouting--some plunge into the plantation on the left--some are
running back upon us! A panic.
Mad bull, perhaps--if so--with admirable presence of mind I jump into
the water up to my waist, and am making for the opposite side, when a
man, running and smoking a short pipe, answers my question as to the
bull with--
"No! Wasps! Wasps' nest!!" In a second I see them. _At_ me. Pursuing me.
I dive my head under water. Wet through! Scramble up bank. One wasp is
after me. One pertinaciously. My foot catches in a root, I am down. Wasp
down too, close at my ear. A minute more I am up. Wasp up too, by my
right ear.
_An Inspiration._--It flashes across me that wasps hate mud. Don't know
where I heard it. Think it was in some child's educational book. No time
for thinking. Jump--squish--into the mud! Over my knees--boots nearly
off. The last thing I see of PENDELL is holding on his spectacles with
his left hand, and fighting a wasp with his stick in his right.
Squish--flop--flosh!... Up against a stump--down in a morass. Wasp at
me. Close to my ear as if he wanted to tell me a secret. I won't hear
it! Now I understand why the dog shook his head. Through a bramble bush
(like the Man in the Nursery Rhyme, who scratched both his eyes out and
in again by a similar operation), and come out torn and scratched, but
dry as a pen after being dragged through a patent wiper of erect
bristles. No wasp. Gone. I am free. But still I keep on.
That's the only great danger in Otter-Hunting. At least, that I know of
at present.
I pick up the man with pipe. Kindest creature in the world. He has two
pipes, and he fills and gives me one. He says, "Wasps won't attack a
smoker."
_Flash._--Smoke.
PENDELL comes up. "Um!--aha!" he says; "narrow escape!" He has _not_
been stung.
The Field is pulling itself together again. PENDELL chuckles. "Did you
see Old RUDDOCK?" he asks. "There were two wasps at him."
No! It appears that Old RUDDOCK has been quite close to me throughout
the day. Yet there was no laughing crowd, and I haven't heard one of
RUDDOCK'S jokes bruited about. Odd. Wonder how the wasps liked RUDDOCK.
* * * * *
[Illustration: COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON.]
_Squire_ (_who interests himself with the Moral and Material Condition
of his Peasantry_). "HULLO, WOODRUFF! WHAT AN EYE YOU'VE GOT! HOW DID
YOU GET THAT?!"
_Labourer._ "O, IT'S NAWTHIN' PARTIC'LAR, SIR. LAST NIGHT--AT THE WHITE
'ART, SIR. BUT--(_in extenuation_)--CHRISHMASH TIME, SIR--ON'Y ONCE A
YEAR!"
* * * * *