rabbits only waiting to be killed and eaten, and to do him justice, Hob
did not keep those that were within reach very long waiting for their
fate. Freedom brought a quick reversion to savagery, all the instincts
of the wild, free-living polecat revived in him at once. He devoted his
first free day to the systematic chase of a family of rabbits right up
to the end-hole of their run, from which there was no escape. Then with
horrid persistence he killed one after the other, biting them behind the
head and taking nothing more than a little blood from each. When the
slaughter was over, he slept among the dead rabbits--clearly he knew
nothing of the fear of ghosts. In the meantime his loss had been
reported to the old keeper, who put a line ferret into the hole where he
was first lost, and then dug right down to the dead rabbit in spite of
obstacles; but of course he was too late, and now he could do no more
than keep a sharp look-out when he went on his rounds, and give the
farm-hands notice that a jack-ferret was loose, and might be found at
any moment, and that a reward of two shillings awaited the finder. But
for all that a price was put upon his head, Hob was not destined to be
secured until he had spent two or three weeks at large, and had grown as
fat as the aldermen of the comic press.
In the days and nights of his freedom, Hob had many adventures. It
became his habit to hunt at night, and many a time the despairing cry of
a pursued rabbit woke the wood when all its denizens seemed to be
asleep. Though he could not have run a rabbit down in a race, he
succeeded by reason of the terror he imposed upon his quarry. Poor Bunny
would race about at three-quarter speed, shrieking as she went. He would
pursue silently, remorselessly, never losing the scent until his victim
would either stop short or would run aimlessly about in a circle, while
he waited for a few moments before rushing forward and inflicting the
sharp bite that brought the hunt to an end. He soon ceased to pursue for
the mere gratification of his appetite; he would kill for the sake of
killing. But towards morning, when the birds were proclaiming the coming
of another day, he would drag a victim to a burrow, eat his fill and go
to sleep.
Once he happened to chase a rabbit into a fox's earth, and even to catch
a glimpse of the vigilant head and fierce eyes of its owner before he
turned and saved himself. On another occasion, while he was watching a
rabbit that sat out on a bank close to the hole that sheltered him, and
preparing to dart forward in pursuit, his intentions were frustrated by
a poaching cat that crept silently up to where the rabbit sat
unsuspecting, and carried it away. Any trouble of this kind made the
ferret very angry and sent him running wildly in search of a fresh
victim. His girth had increased enormously, and his skin was as tight as
a drum, but he kept in excellent condition, and seldom failed to kill
when he had started in pursuit. Many a time he passed his old home, for
in all his wanderings, that took him as far as two miles from the
keeper's cottage, he never forgot its exact position.
Not until he had been a vagabond for nearly three weeks did his luck
fail him, and then on a fine Saturday afternoon he was sighted by one of
the ploughman's lads, and having no time to find a burrow or any other
hiding-place, he submitted to be picked up. The boy took him home to his
father's cottage, found a sack, and having put some straw into it, threw
Hob in after, and tramped over to the keeper. There was nobody in the
house, and not liking to meddle with the ferret-hutches, the lad put the
bag into the house through a window that chanced to be open. He then
closed the shutter and came away. Hob, having been shaken by the fall,
waxed specially indignant and industrious, searched the bag diligently,
and managed to find a hole. He worked his way through it and started to
prospect. He was in the larder, and on a shelf he managed to reach there
was a chicken that the keeper had dedicated to Sunday's dinner. Hob,
being ignorant of his master's intentions--or, perhaps, indifferent to
them--made an excellent supper off such parts of the bird as took his
fancy, and was discovered midmost his repast. Then his time of liberty
came to a sudden end, and the next fortnight was a period of repentance,
for he had no more than enough food to keep him alive, and the fine,
prosperous contour he had developed in freedom disappeared slowly but
surely, leaving him loose-skinned as of yore. When he went into service
again, it was as a line-ferret--his master had finished taking risks.
It would be idle to pretend that Hob liked his work in its new form, but
to his credit be it said that he never sulked. He worked as hard as
ever, though it was inglorious labour to hunt for other ferrets that had
killed rabbits and eaten the best part of them, or chased several to an
end-hole and were now crowding them up in a corner and trying vainly to
kill them. As soon as he stopped he knew he would be pulled out by the
hand that controlled the line, and thrown back into basket, bag or box,
while spade or pickaxe was requisitioned to break down into the earth.
He would resist withdrawal to the uttermost, but the collar round his
neck was too tight to be slipped, and he had to come out.
From time to time Hob ran with the jill-ferrets in the clearing round
the hutches, and he was the father of several fine litters, but was
probably unaware of the fact, for he was totally devoid of domestic
instincts. He could not have helped the jill to tend the little ones,
nor would he have been content to endure the darkness and seclusion of
her home for an hour. It would not have been wise to leave him with
young ferrets, even though they were his own children, if it happened to
be meal-time and one and all were hungry. They would have been regarded
less as kith and kin than as intruders bent upon depriving him of his
food.
After a long period of line-work, Hob's patience was rewarded by a few
days' ratting. Some of the old thatched cottages on the estate were
infested by the rats. They swarmed in the walls and under the floors and
in the thatch; when the corn was threshed they repaired to the houses,
where they were fruitful, and multiplied and replenished the cottages
and ate everything save tar, glass and metal. Complaints were made to
the bailiff, and half a dozen ferrets visited each cottage in turn. It
was a black week in ratland. Flight into the open availed very little,
for there were one or two active terriers in the garden; hiding-places
did not avail, for there was no hole so small but that a ferret could
follow if a rat could lead; and as for fighting, it was no better--the
ferret knew how to dodge the sharp teeth and plant his own before the
rat could try again. There were no muzzles and no lines to hinder
progress, and Hob killed as he had killed in the few weeks when he was a
free ferret and all the rabbits in the woodland were at his mercy. To be
sure, he received a few bites, so did his fellows, but they did not mind
such honourable wounds. When the last rat had been killed, the ferrets
were collected and taken home, to be carefully examined and have their
wounds dressed and their feet carefully washed in warm water, with which
a disinfectant was mixed. This careful treatment saved all trouble, and
after a couple of days' rest the ferrets were quite ready for work.
For more than two years Hob served his master, working so well that many
people tried to buy him, and at last an amateur, who knew little about
shooting and less about ferrets, made an offer that the old gamekeeper
could not resist, and Hob went by rail in a small box to a farm where he
was destined to enter upon evil days. In the first place, his hutch was
a small one, and though it had a sleeping-apartment as well as a
living-room, there was no space for exercise. The straw was not changed
regularly, the saucer that held the milk was often left uncleaned, so
that the milk turned sour; pieces of rabbit or small birds were thrown
in haphazard and promptly conveyed to the sleeping-room by Hob, who knew
no better. Within a month of finding his new home the ferret had quite
lost the gloss that was on his coat in the old days, and lack of
exercise had reduced his vigour. When he went out to work in warren or
hedgerow, and came home tired out and with wet feet, he was turned out
into his hutch and left to get warm by rolling himself upon straw that
was sometimes damp and dirty. The old warm foot-bath that had kept him
in such good condition was quite unknown in the new home. In a little
while he was ill; his feet suffered from a complaint born of damp and
dirt, and he had the kind of fever that results from lack of proper
attention. These conditions were noted and, thanks to a little prompt
and practical treatment, they were righted, but the real causes of the
illness were never removed, because they were not understood, and it was
a tradition of the neighbourhood that ferrets are delicate and hard to
rear. Indeed, Hob's new owner was heard to say that the old gamekeeper
had sold him a weakly ferret for a long price, and had kept back the one
he arranged to buy.
Perhaps the discomfort of his surroundings decided Hob to make his
escape from them. Be that as it may, he took the first opportunity after
his recovery to remain in an earth from which he had driven a couple of
rabbits to the gun. He was free and unmuzzled, and he had no kill by his
side; the line-ferret sent down to investigate made no sign. Digging
only served to send him further into a perfect labyrinth that should
have been dug out or blown up at the end of the previous season, and
when sunset made the weary and angry diggers desist from their labours,
Hob was free once more. By the following morning he had left the earth a
long way behind him, and was sleeping in security by the remains of the
rabbit that had yielded him supper and breakfast in one long meal. He
could not run about as he did when he first made his escape into the
world--lack of exercise and consequent illness had made him weak,
nervous and slow in pursuit. If the rabbits had only known they might
have escaped from him easily enough, and he must have starved; but he
was a ferret, and that fact was sufficient to rob them of the keen edge
of their speed. So strength came back to him slowly but surely, his eye
recovered its brightness, and his coat its glossy smoothness, and though
his feet were often wet and dirty, he could clean himself, because he
had plenty of room to turn about.
[Illustration: FERRET [Photo by C. Reid]]
Then with increase of strength came the desire to run for very pleasure
of exercise, and towards evening the whitey-grey figure might have been
seen passing rapidly along the edge of plantations and across open
meadow-lands--might have been seen, and was seen, for one night a young
farmer, out in search of a rabbit for the table, noticed the movement of
the long, lithe body, and knowing nothing of a missing ferret, was
certain that he saw a stoat. In a moment his gun was at his shoulder,
and a second later Hob's career was at an end.
"Blame me if'e bean't a ferret!" remarked the shooter as he picked his
victim up. And following that brief oration came the obsequies of Hob,
who was flung into a convenient ditch.
THE FIGHTING BULL
When the fighting bulls come in at sunset, led from the lush pastures by
the belled bullocks that have been their lifelong companions, one animal
walks alone in the rear of the herd. He is of more than common size and
splendidly armed, if one may use the bull-fighter's term in speaking of
his horns, but his is a gentle nature, and even the ganadero's daughter,
little Golisa, who has no more than ten summers to her credit, may bring
him a handful of corn without fear. He is nine years old, and has many
peaceful seasons before him, for he is El Perdonado.
Never heard of him, you say? That must be because you don't know
Andalusia. I saw the historic fight of which he was the hero; heard the
greatest diestro in Spain make an appeal to the President that El
Cuchillo, as he was then called, might be pardoned for bravery. And I
saw the Spanish grandee, one of whose ancestors was immortalised by
Velazquez, bare his head and pronounce the verdict of acquittal that is
not heard once in five years in the plaza de toros. So El Perdonado (The
Pardoned One) is by way of being an acquaintance of mine, and I have
ridden for miles across country to see him browsing peacefully on the
grass lands beyond Utrera, where he was born and bred. Now I will try to
set his history before you, that you may know something more of fighting
bulls than the plaza de toros can teach. The most of what I have to tell
I have seen for myself, but for some of the more intimate details I am
indebted to El Conecito, most expert of Andalusian banderilleros, with
whom I used to chat over horchatas in the café of the Emperadores that
is on the Sierpes of Seville. He will never see this acknowledgement of
his help, for he slipped in the plaza de toros at Valencia during the
corrida in honour of the feast of the Santissima Trinidad, slipped on a
purple patch that had not been properly covered with sand, and died as
he had lived--quite fearlessly.
* * * * *
El Perdonado was born on a Utrera bull-farm, in one of those restful
districts that delight the traveller between Seville and the sea. The
alqueria had whitewashed walls and a red roof, from which a belfry rose;
it lay amid rich pastures. There were pools shaded with willows, and
avenues of poplars that stood like sentinels against the sky-line, and
over all the country-side brooded the spirit of deep and abiding peace.
The young bull's mother was of the notorious Miura herd of the Duke of
Veragua, "the herd of death," famous for their prowess throughout the
arenas of Spain, and known by the red divisa that they carry into the
ring. His sire was from a northern province, and not so well known to
fame, but highly esteemed by the aficionados, the men who study the
science of the bull-ring.
As soon as the calf was weaned he was turned out on to the rich lands
that are watered by one of the tributaries of the Guadalquivir, and
there he passed his days, eating lazily or standing in one of the pools
to keep cool. He and his fellows were placed in the charge of a
ganadero, who rode tirelessly across the meadows throughout the day,
watching that his charges came to no harm and guiding or correcting them
as he thought fit with a long pole. The young bulls were as hard to
manage as a pack of foxhounds. They had every sort of temper among them;
they were vicious, crafty, daring and sulky in turn, but they had one
quality in common, and that was terror of the master's pole. For Miguel,
the ganadero, could knock a troublesome bull calf head over heels with
his formidable weapon; he could ride like a vaquero of the pampas and
turn a score of animals together in any direction he desired. Yet for
all that he was fierce and pitiless, Miguel was the slave of any animal
that fell sick, and never a racehorse received better attention in time
of trouble.
Our friend gave little or no anxiety to the ganadero, and there was
nothing in his behaviour during the first two years of his life that
might outline his character, until the day when the proprietor of the
farm rode down to the pastures with a company of friends and expert
professionals to test the novillos, as the young bulls were then called.
Each bull in turn was separated from the herd and charged by a stranger
on horseback who was armed with such a pole as Miguel used.
Some of the animals would not face the charge at all, but fled in terror
from it--to be driven into a fenced pasture and become mere butcher's
meat in the fulness of time. Others realised that their enemy was not
Miguel, and charged him with fury. These were acclaimed by their owner,
named on the spot, and entered in the stud-book as fighting-bulls. None
of the novillos made so fierce a charge as the subject of this story,
and because of the strength, shape and sharpness of his horns, he was
entered in the records as El Cuchillo (The Knife). Among the bulls
tested were some not quite of the first class in development and horn
growth, though they were not lacking in courage and strength. These were
sent away to provincial bull-rings, where they served, in corridas de
novillos, to give practice to matadors of the second class, and to
satisfy the blood-thirst of men and women who could not afford the time
or money to visit the large arenas.
For El Cuchillo and the chosen companions of his year, life took a new
and agreeable form when the first test had been withstood. They were
kept by themselves in the lowest and richest meadows, where the grass
came to their flanks and the water never failed. In the evening the tame
bullocks that carried cow-bells round their necks came to fetch them
home, and when they reached their stalls there was always a measure of
fine corn for supper. So they increased in strength and natural ferocity
until only Miguel dared face them, and he relied chiefly upon his old
reputation. It is more than likely that he would have fared ill in a
contest with the least of them now; but, as he carried the familiar
pole, was a stranger to fear, and never allowed an order to be
disobeyed, his rule was not seriously challenged. He called each bull by
its name as though he were the huntsman and his charges were a pack of
hounds.
* * * * *
One afternoon when El Cuchillo was rather more than three and a half
years old, the tame bullocks came to the prairie some hours before their
time, and in their wake followed half a dozen ganaderos, with Miguel at
their head, all carrying long poles. Some eight bulls, including El
Cuchillo, were separated from the rest of the company, and round these
the belled bullocks formed a little circle, and the company started
along an unfamiliar and deserted road, through lanes overblown with
flowers of richest colour and fragrant with the perfume of wild thyme.
Past farmhouses well-nigh smothered in greenery, and tiny wayside ventas
where little groups of interested spectators were gathered under the
vine-trellised arbours, men and beasts took their slow and peaceful way.
Before nightfall a quiet meadow received the company of bulls and
bullocks and, while five of the ganaderos went to claim the shelter of a
neighbouring farmhouse, Miguel kept watch during the few dark hours.
In the afternoon of the next day the journey was resumed, and the fierce
bulls went forward in orderly fashion enough, because they were
accustomed by now to the company of bullocks and the tinkling of their
bells. So that the bullocks knew the way, the bulls were well content to
follow. Only on the fourth evening did they reach their destination, the
tablada that lies within five miles of Seville and offers a clear view
of the Giralda Tower and the cathedral. There for some days bulls and
bullocks rested from their labours, and the corn supply of the former
was renewed by Miguel with a lavish hand. Such little fatigue as might
have been associated with the journey over dry and dusty roads was
speedily forgotten.
A very gay procession rode out of Seville to the tablada on the
afternoon of the Friday following the arrival of the animals. There were
several noble patrons of the bull-ring, a tall, fair-bearded man who was
treated with special deference, and a dancing-girl whose name was known
from London to New York viâ St. Petersburg. One of Spain's leading
matadors was of the party--a heavy-jawed dull-eyed man, who rode his
horse very awkwardly; there were two of the directors of the plaza de
toros, and some of the lesser lights of the arena, including El
Conecito, the banderillero. The bulls took little notice of the
intruders. Their friends, the tame bullocks, were feeding by their side,
and Miguel, armed with his pole, sat watching over them from the horse
of which he seemed to be a part.
The company rode past the bulls, noting their points as connoisseurs
should, and when the great matador--why hide the fact that it was
Espartero himself?--saw El Cuchillo, he positively trembled with
excitement. In thick guttural tones he asked Miguel a few questions;
then, with a light in his eyes that seemed to change the character of
his face, he cantered heavily to where the great bull stood. "We shall
meet on Sunday, my beauty," he cried aloud, "and then you shall feel my
sword in your heart or I will take your horns to my body."
And El Cuchillo, who at other times would permit no man to come within
ten yards of him, raised his huge head and stared at the finest
swordsman in all Spain, as though he understood the challenge and
accepted it.
"You seem pleased with that fellow, Espartero," said the tall man,
turning for a moment from the lady with whom he had been conversing.
"Your highness," replied the great diestro, "since the day when I
entered a plaza for the first time, I have never seen a bull better
set-up, better armed or in more splendid condition. And if I read him
aright, half a dozen horses won't tire him."
Having spoken he drew back, the animation passed from his face as
rapidly as it had come there, and he rode silently back to the city in
the wake of his gay companions. Only Miguel remained in the tablada,
perhaps in that moment the proudest man in Andalusia. For it was to his
care and tireless work that El Cuchillo's perfect condition was due.
More than twenty-four hours passed uneventfully, save that the supply of
corn was doubled, but as Saturday night drew on many unaccustomed sounds
disturbed the bulls--sounds of carriage wheels, the tramp of many horses
and the noise of human voices. More than once the huge animals rose to
their feet and looked round uneasily, but the bullocks showed no sign of
nervousness, and Miguel was in his place. Night deepened, but moon and
stars shone with a good grace, and soon there were other lights moving
close to the ground--lanterns carried by horsemen at the end of long
poles. Miguel's voice sounded across the tablada, calling the beasts by
name; they rose to their feet and came together, a dark, unwieldy
nervous mass that a false movement might have turned into a destructive
force. But other ganaderos were riding through the tablada now and
calling the bullocks, that, obedient to the summons, gathered round the
bulls and, preceded by Miguel and one ganadero, led the way through the
pastures to the high road. As soon as this was reached Miguel's
companion shook his reins and darted off at a thundering gallop along
the Seville road. His the duty to warn belated travellers that the
encierro had commenced, to turn carriages and waggons into side lanes,
and then to continue his headlong rush until the plaza de toros was
reached, and he could summon the men on duty there to light their fires
and open the great gate leading to the toril. It was a simple matter
enough to take the bulls from their native pasture to the place they
were leaving now, but the last few miles between the tablada and the
bull-ring were full of dangers, for all Seville was accustomed to turn
out to see the procession.
When bulls, bullocks and their guardians were safely on the high road, a
long procession of carriages, followed by men on horse and afoot, came
from a turn in the main road and formed a sort of rearguard.