“Why shouldn’t he poison him if the fox takes his fowls? Fowls are better than foxes.”
“Not in this country,” said Morton.
“Then I’m very glad I don’t live here,” said Mr. Gotobed. “These friends of yours are dressed very nicely and look very well—but a fox is a nasty animal. It was that man standing up on the bank;—wasn’t it?” continued the Senator, who was determined to understand it all to the very bottom, in reference to certain lectures which he intended to give on his return to the States—and perhaps also in the old country before he left it.
“They suspect him.”
“That man with the gun! One man against two hundred! Now I respect that man;—I do with all my heart.”
“You’d better not say so here, Mr. Gotobed.”
“I know how full of prejudice you all air’—but I do respect him. If I comprehend the matter rightly, he was on his own land when we saw him.”
“Yes;—that was his own field.”
“And they meant to ride across it whether he liked it or no?”
“Everybody rides across everybody’s land out hunting.”
“Would they ride across your park, Mr. Morton, if you didn’t let them?”
“Certainly they would—and break down all my gates if I had them locked, and pull down my park palings to let the hounds through.”
“And you could get no compensation?”
“Practically I could get none. And certainly I should not try. The greatest enemy to hunting in the whole county would not be foolish enough to make the attempt.”
“Why so?”
“He would get no satisfaction, and everybody would hate him.”
“Then I respect that man the more. What is that man’s name?” Morton hadn’t heard the name, or had forgotten it. “I shall find that man out, and have some conversation with him, Mr. Morton. I respect that man, Mr. Morton. He’s one against two hundred, and he insists upon his rights. Those men standing round and wiping their eyes, and stifled with grief because a fox had been poisoned, as though some great patriot had died among them in the service of his country, formed one of the most remarkable phenomena, sir, that ever I beheld in any country. When I get among my own people in Mickewa and tell them that—they won’t believe me, sir.”
In the meantime the cavalcade was hurrying away to Impington Gorse, and John Morton, feeling that he had not had an opportunity as yet of showing his American friend the best side of hunting, went with them. The five miles were five long miles, and as the pace was not above seven miles an hour, nearly an hour was occupied. There was therefore plenty of opportunity for the Senator to inquire whether the gentlemen around him were as yet enjoying their sport. There was an air of triumph about him as to the misfortunes of the day, joined to a battery of continued raillery, which made it almost impossible for Morton to keep his temper. He asked whether it was not at any rate better than trotting a pair of horses backwards and forwards over the same mile of road for half the day, as is the custom in the States. But the Senator, though he did not quite approve of trotting matches, argued that there was infinitely more of skill and ingenuity in the American pastime. “Everybody is so gloomy,” said the Senator, lighting his third cigar. “I’ve been watching that young man in pink boots for the last half hour, and he hasn’t spoken a word to anyone.”
“Perhaps he’s a stranger,” said Morton.
“And that’s the way you treat him!”
It was past two when the hounds were put into the gorse, and certainly no one was in a very good humour. A trot of five miles is disagreeable, and two o’clock in November is late for finding a first fox; and then poisoning is a vice that may grow into a habit! There was a general feeling that Goarly ought to be extinguished, but an idea that it might be difficult to extinguish him. The whips, nevertheless, cantered on to the corner of the covert, and Tony put in his hounds with a cheery voice. The Senator remarked that the gorse was a very little place—for as they were on the side of an opposite hill they could see it all. Lord Rufford, who was standing by the carriage, explained to him that it was a favourite resort of foxes, and difficult to draw as being very close. “Perhaps they’ve poisoned him too,” said the Senator. It was evident from his voice that had such been the case, he would not have been among the mourners. “The blackguards are not yet thick enough in our country for that,” said Lord Rufford, meaning to be sarcastic.
Then a whimper was heard from a hound—at first very low, and then growing into a fuller sound. “There he is,” said young Hampton. “For heaven’s sake get those fellows away from that side, Glomax.” This was uttered with so much vehemence that the Senator looked up in surprise. Then the Captain galloped round the side of the covert, and, making use of some strong language, stopped the ardour of certain gentlemen who were in a hurry to get away on what they considered good terms. Lord Rufford, Hampton, Larry Twentyman and others sat stock-still on their horses, watching the gorse. Ned Botsey urged himself a little forward down the hill, and was creeping on when Captain Glomax asked him whether he would be so ⸻ ⸻ obliging kind as to remain where he was for half a minute. Ned took the observations in good part and stopped his horse. “Does he do all that cursing and swearing for the £2,000?” asked the Senator.
The fox traversed the gorse back from side to side and from corner to corner again and again. There were two sides certainly at which he might break, but though he came out more than once he could not be got to go away.
“They’ll kill him now before he breaks,” said the
