“I don’t remember anything like it on my property before,” said the lord, standing up for his own estate and the county at large.
“Nor in the hunt,” said young Hampton. “Of course such a thing may happen anywhere. They had foxes poisoned in the Pytchley last year.”
“It shows a d⸺ bad feeling somewhere,” said the Master.
“We know very well where the feeling is,” said Bean who had by this time taken up the fox, determined not to allow it to pass into any hands less careful than his own.
“It’s that scoundrel, Goarly,” said one of the Botseys. Then there was an indignant murmur heard, first of all from two or three and then running among the whole crowd. Everybody knew as well as though he had seen it that Goarly had baited meat with strychnine and put it down in the wood. “Might have pi’soned half the pack!” said Tony Tuppett, who had come up on foot from the barn where the hounds were still imprisoned, and had caught hold in an affectionate manner of a fore pad of the fox which Bean had clutched by the two hind legs. Poor Tony Tuppett almost shed tears as he looked at the dead animal, and thought what might have been the fate of the pack. “It’s him, my lord,” he said, “as we run through Littleton gorse Monday after Christmas last, and up to Impington Park where he got away from us in a hollow tree. He’s four year old,” added Tony, looking at the animal’s mouth, “and there warn’t a finer dog fox in the county.”
“Do they know all the foxes?” asked the Senator. In answer to this, Morton only shook his head, not feeling quite sure himself how far a huntsman’s acquaintance in that line might go, and being also too much impressed by the occasion for speculative conversation.
“It’s that scoundrel Goarly” had been repeated again and again; and then on a sudden Goarly himself was seen standing on the further hedge of Larry’s field with a gun in his hand. He was not at this time above two hundred yards from them, and was declared by one of the young farmers to be grinning with delight. The next field was Goarly’s, but the hedge and ditch belonged to Twentyman. Larry rushed forward as though determined to thrash the man, and two or three followed him. But Lord Rufford galloped on and stopped them. “Don’t get into a row with a fellow like that,” he said to Twentyman.
“He’s on my land, my lord,” said Larry impatiently.
“I’m on my own now, and let me see who’ll dare to touch me,” said Goarly jumping down.
“You’ve put poison down in that wood,” said Larry.
“No I didn’t;—but I knows who did. It ain’t I as am afeard for my young turkeys.” Now it was well known that old Mrs. Twentyman, Larry’s mother, was fond of young turkeys, and that her poultry-yard had suffered. Larry, in his determination to be a gentleman, had always laughed at his mother’s losses. But now to be accused in this way was terrible to his feelings! He made a rush as though to jump over the hedge, but Lord Rufford again intercepted him. “I didn’t think, Mr. Twentyman, that you’d care for what such a fellow as that might say.” By this time Lord Rufford was off his horse, and had taken hold of Larry.
“I’ll tell you all what it is,” screamed Goarly, standing just at the edge of his own field—“if a hound comes out of the wood on to my land, I’ll shoot him. I don’t know nothing about p’isoning, though I dare say Mr. Twentyman does. But if a hound comes on my land, I’ll shoot him—open, before you all.” There was, however, no danger of such a threat being executed on this day, as of course no hound would be allowed to go into Dillsborough Wood.
Twentyman was reluctantly brought back into the meadow where the horses were standing, and then a consultation was held as to what they should do next. There were some who thought that the hounds should be taken home for the day. It was as though some special friend of the U.R.U. had died that morning, and that the spirits of the sportsmen were too dejected for their sport. Others, with prudent foresight, suggested that the hounds might run back from some distant covert to Dillsborough, and that there should be no hunting till the wood had been thoroughly searched. But the strangers, especially those who had hired horses, would not hear of this; and after considerable delay it was arranged that the hounds should be trotted off as quickly as possible to Impington Gorse, which was on the other side of Impington Park, and fully five miles distant. And so they started, leaving the dead fox in the hands of Bean the gamekeeper.
“Is this the sort of thing that occurs every day?” asked the Senator as he got back into the carriage.
“I should fancy not,” answered Morton. “Somebody has poisoned a fox, and I don’t think that that is very often done about here.”
“Why did he poison him?”
“To save his fowls I
