The animal--in view of the commotion about to pursue it--was
surprisingly small, slim flanked; proportionately the tail seemed
extravagant. "I hope the brush won't get wet," a man behind Lee spoke;
"when it does they can't run." As it was, the fox, obviously, was
reluctant to start; it crouched in the rough grass and glanced fleetly
around with incredibly sharp black eyes. The men shouted and flung up
their arms; but the animal was indifferent to their laudable efforts.
The hunt, Lee Randon thought, had assumed an aspect of the ridiculous;
the men and women on expensive excited horses, the pack yelping from
beyond a road, the expectant on-lookers, were mocked by the immobility
of the puzzled subject of the chase. Finally the fox obligingly moved a
few steps; it hesitated again, and then trotted forward, slipping under
a fence. Lee could follow it clearly across the next field and into the
next; its progress was unhurried, deliberate, insolent.
"Give him six minutes," the Master decided.
When the time had gone the leash of the single hound was slipped. She
ran around in a circle, whining eagerly, her nose to the sod, and then
with a high yelp, set smartly off in a direction absolutely opposite to
that taken by the fox. She was brought back and her nose held to the
hot scent; again, with a fresh assurance, the bitch gave tongue,
followed the trail to where it went under the fence, and turned,
instead of bearing to the right, to the left.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132