“Where are we now?” said Burgo, as four or five of them dashed through the open gate of a farmyard.
“This is Bulby’s farm,” said Tom, “and we’re going right away for Elmham Wood.”
“Elmham Wood be d⸺,” said a stout farmer, who had come as far as that with them. “You won’t see Elmham Wood today.”
“I suppose you know best,” said Tom; and then they were through the yard, across another road, and down a steep ravine by the side of a little copse. “He’s been through them firs, anyway,” said Tom. “To him, Gaylass!” Then up they went the other side of the ravine, and saw the body of the hounds almost a field before them at the top.
“I say—that took some of the wind out of a fellow,” said Pollock.
“You mustn’t mind about wind now,” said Burgo, dashing on.
“Wasn’t the pace awful, coming up to that farmhouse?” said Calder Jones, looking round to see if Grindley was shaken off. But Grindley, with some six or seven others, was still there. And there, also, always in the next field to the left, was George Vavasor. He had spoken no word to anyone since the hunt commenced, nor had he wished to speak to anyone. He desired to sell his horse—and he desired also to succeed in the run for other reasons than that, though I think he would have found it difficult to define them.
Now they had open grass land for about a mile, but with very heavy fences—so that the hounds gained upon them a little, and Pollock’s weight began to tell. The huntsman and Burgo were leading with some fortunate county gentleman whose good stars had brought him in upon them at the farmyard gate. It is the injustice of such accidents as this that breaks the heart of a man who has honestly gone through all the heat and work of the struggle! And the hounds had veered a little round to the left, making, after all, for Claydon’s. “Darned if the Squire warn’t right,” said Tom. Sir William, though a baronet, was familiarly called the Squire throughout the hunt.
“We ain’t going for Claydon’s now?” asked Burgo.
“Them’s Claydon’s beeches we sees over there,” said Tom. “ ’Tain’t often the Squire’s wrong.”
Here they came to a little double rail and a little quick-set hedge. A double rail is a nasty fence always if it has been made any way strong, and one which a man with a wife and a family is justified in avoiding. They mostly can be avoided, having gates; and this could have been avoided. But Burgo never avoided anything, and went over it beautifully. The difficulty is to be discreet when the man before one has been indiscreet. Tom went for the gate, as did Pollock, who knew that he could have no chance at the double rails. But Calder Jones came to infinite grief, striking the top bar of the second rail, and going head-foremost out of his saddle, as though thrown by a catapult. There we must leave him. Grindley, rejoicing greatly at this discomfiture, made for the gate; but the country gentleman with the fresh horse accomplished the rails, and was soon alongside of Burgo.
“I didn’t see you at the start,” said Burgo.
“And I didn’t see you,” said the country gentleman; “so it’s even.”
Burgo did not see the thing in the same light, but he said no more. Grindley and Tom were soon after them, Tom doing his utmost to shake off the attorney. Pollock was coming on also; but the pace had been too much for him, and though the ground rode light his poor beast laboured and grunted sorely. The hounds were still veering somewhat to the left, and Burgo, jumping over a small fence into the same field with them, saw that there was a horseman ahead of him. This was George Vavasor, who was going well, without any symptom of distress.
And now they were at Claydon’s, having run over some seven miles of ground in about thirty-five minutes. To those who do not know what hunting is, this pace does not seem very extraordinary; but it had been quite quick enough, as was testified by the horses which had gone the distance. Our party entered Claydon’s Park at back, through a gate in the park palings that was open on hunting days; but a much more numerous lot was there almost as soon as them, who had come in by the main entrance. This lot was headed by Sir William, and our friend Maxwell was with him.
“A jolly thing so far,” said Burgo to Maxwell; “about the best we’ve had this year.”
“I didn’t see a yard of it,” said Maxwell. “I hadn’t nerve to get off the first road, and I haven’t been off it ever since.” Maxwell was a man who never lied about his hunting, or had the slightest shame in riding roads. “Who’s been with you?” said he.
“There’ve been Tom and I;—and Calder Jones was there for a while. I think he killed himself somewhere. And there was Pollock, and your friend Grindley, and a chap whose name I don’t know who dropped out of heaven about halfway in the run; and there was another man whose back I saw just now; there he is—by heavens, it’s Vavasor! I didn’t know he was here.”
They hung about the Claydon covers for ten minutes, and then their fox went off again—their fox or another, as to which there was a great discussion afterwards; but he who would have suggested the idea of a new fox to Sir William would have been a bold man. A fox, however, went off, turning still to
