The Duke’s Children

unfit. I dare say Major Tifto knew how to handle a pack of hounds⁠—perhaps almost as well as my huntsman, Fowler. But I don’t think a county would get on very well which appointed Fowler Master of Hounds. He is an honest man, and therefore would be better than Tifto. But⁠—it would not do. It is a position in which a man should at any rate be a gentleman. If he be not, all those who should be concerned in maintaining the hunt will turn their backs upon him. When I take my hounds over this man’s ground, and that man’s ground, certainly without doing him any good, I have to think of a great many things. I have to understand that those whom I cannot compensate by money, I have to compensate by courtesy. When I shake hands with a farmer and express my obligation to him because he does not lock his gates, he is gratified. I don’t think any decent farmer would care much for shaking hands with Major Tifto. If we fall into that kind of thing there must soon be an end of hunting. Major Tiftos are cheap no doubt; but in hunting, as in most other things, cheap and nasty go together. If men don’t choose to put their hands in their pockets they had better say so, and give the thing up altogether. If you won’t take any more wine, we’ll go to the ladies. Silverbridge, the trap will start from the door tomorrow morning precisely at 9:30 a.m. Grantingham Cross is fourteen miles.” Then they all left their chairs⁠—but as they did so Mr. Spooner finished the bottle of port-wine.

“I never heard Chiltern speak so much like a book before,” said Spooner to his wife, as she drove him home that night.

The next morning everybody was ready for a start at half-past nine, except Mr. Maule⁠—as to whom his wife declared that she had left him in bed when she came down to breakfast. “He can never get there if we don’t take him,” said Lord Chiltern, who was in truth the most good-natured man in the world. Five minutes were allowed him, and then he came down with a large sandwich in one hand and a buttonhook in the other, with which he was prepared to complete his toilet. “What the deuce makes you always in such a hurry?” were the first words he spoke as Lord Chiltern got on the box. The Master knew him too well to argue the point. “Well;⁠—he always is in a hurry,” said the sinner, when his wife accused him of ingratitude.

“Where’s Spooner?” asked the Master when he saw Mrs. Spooner without her husband at the meet.

“I knew how it would be when I saw the port-wine,” she said in a whisper that could be heard all round. “He has got it this time sharp⁠—in his great toe. We shan’t find at Grantingham. They were cutting wood there last week. If I were you, my Lord, I’d go away to the Spinnies at once.”

“I must draw the country regularly,” muttered the Master.

The country was drawn regularly, but in vain till about two o’clock. Not only was there no fox at Grantingham Wood, but none even at the Spinnies. And at two, Fowler, with an anxious face, held a consultation with his more anxious Master. Trumpington Wood lay on their right, and that no doubt would have been the proper draw. “I suppose we must try it,” said Lord Chiltern.

Old Fowler looked very sour. “You might as well look for a fox under my wife’s bed, my Lord.”

“I dare say we should find one there,” said one of the wags of the hunt. Fowler shook his head, feeling that this was no time for joking.

“It ought to be drawn,” said Chiltern.

“Of course you know best, my Lord. I wouldn’t touch it⁠—never no more. Let ’em all know what the Duke’s Wood is.”

“This is Lord Silverbridge, the Duke’s son,” said Chiltern, laughing.

“I beg your Lordship’s pardon,” said Fowler, taking off his cap. “We shall have a good time coming, some day. Let me trot ’em off to Michaelmas Daisies, my Lord. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” In the neighbouring parish of St. Michael de Dezier there was a favourite little gorse which among hunting-men had acquired this unreasonable name. After a little consideration the Master yielded, and away they trotted.

“You’ll cross the ford, Fowler?” asked Mrs. Spooner.

“Oh yes, ma’am; we couldn’t draw the Daisies this afternoon if we didn’t.”

“It’ll be up to the horses’ bellies.”

“Those who don’t like it can go round.”

“They’d never be there in time, Fowler.”

“There’s a many, ma’am, as don’t mind that. You won’t be one to stay behind.” The water was up to the horses’ bellies, but, nevertheless, Mrs. Spooner was at the gorse side when the Daisies were drawn.

They found and were away in a minute. It was all done so quickly that Fowler, who had alone gone into the gorse, had hardly time to get out with his hounds. The fox ran right back, as though he were making for the Duke’s pernicious wood. In the first field or two there was a succession of gates, and there was not much to do in the way of jumping. Then the fox, keeping straight ahead, deviated from the line by which they had come, making for the brook by a more direct course. The ruck of the horsemen, understanding the matter very well, left the hounds, and went to the right, riding for the ford. The ford was of such a nature that but one horse could pass it at a time, and that one had to scramble through deep mud. “There’ll be the devil to pay there,” said Lord Chiltern, going straight with his hounds. Phineas Finn and Dick Rabbit were close after him. Old Fowler had craftily gone to the ford; but Mrs. Spooner, who did not intend to be shaken off, followed the Master, and close with her was