“We shan’t do any good today,” said Grindley, coming up to Vavasor.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Vavasor.
“That old fellow has got to be so stupid, he doesn’t know what he’s about,” said Grindley, meaning Sir William.
“How can he make the fox break?” said Vavasor; and as his voice was by no means encouraging Grindley rode away.
Lunch and cigars lasted till two, during which hour the hounds, the huntsmen, the whips, and old Sir William were hard at work, as also were some few others who persistently followed every chance of the game. From that till three there were two or three flashes in the pan, and false reports as to foxes which had gone away, which first set men galloping, and then made them very angry. After three, men began to say naughty things, to abuse Cranby Wood, to wish violently that they had remained at home or gone elsewhere, and to speak irreverently of their ancient master. “It’s the cussidest place in all creation,” said Maxwell. “I often said I’d not come here any more, and now I say it again.”
“And yet you’ll be here the next meet,” said Grindley, who had sneaked back to his old companions in weariness of spirit.
“Grindems, you know a sight too much,” said Maxwell; “you do indeed. An ordinary fellow has no chance with you.”
Grindley was again going to catch it, but was on this time saved by the appearance of the huntsman, who came galloping up one of the rides, with a lot of the hounds at his heels.
“He isn’t away, Tom, surely?” said Maxwell.
“He’s out of the wood somewheres,” said Tom;—and off they all went. Vavasor changed his horse, getting on to the brown one, and giving up his chestnut mare to Bat Smithers, who suggested that he might as well go home to Roebury now. Vavasor gave him no answer, but, trotting on to the point where the rides met, stopped a moment and listened carefully. Then he took a path diverging away from that by which the huntsmen and the crowd of horsemen had gone, and made the best of his way through the wood. At the end of this he came upon Sir William, who, with no one near him but his servant, was standing in the pathway of a little hunting-gate.
“Hold hard,” said Sir William. “The hounds are not out of the wood yet.”
“Is the fox away, sir?”
“What’s the good of that if we can’t get the hounds out?—Yes, he’s away. He passed out where I’m standing.” And then he began to blow his horn lustily, and by degrees other men and a few hounds came down the ride. Then Tom, with his horse almost blown, made his appearance outside the wood, and soon there came a rush of men, nearly on the top of one another, pushing on, not knowing whither, but keenly alive to the fact that the fox had at last consented to move his quarters.
Tom touched his hat, and looked at his master, inquiringly. “He’s gone for Claydon’s,” said the master. “Try them up that hedgerow.” Tom did try them up the hedgerow, and in half a minute the hounds came upon the scent. Then you might see men settling their hats on their heads, and feeling their feet in the stirrups. The moment for which they had so long waited had come, and yet there were many who would now have preferred that the fox should be headed back into cover. Some had but little confidence in their half-blown horses;—with many the waiting, though so abused and anathematized, was in truth more to their taste than the run itself;—with others the excitement had gone by, and a gallop over a field or two was necessary before it would be restored. With most men at such a moment there is a little nervousness, some fear of making a bad start, a dread lest others should have more of the success of the hunt than falls to them. But there was a great rush and a mighty bustle as the hounds made out their game, and Sir William felt himself called upon to use the rough side of his tongue to more than one delinquent.
And then certain sly old stagers might be seen turning off to the left, instead of following the course of the game as indicated by the hounds. They were men who had felt the air as they came out, and knew that the fox must
