CHAPTER XXV
The Black Bird
The last meet of the season was, as always, at Folkington Green, close enough to Lewes to draw the townsfolk out on bicycles and in char-à-bancs.
The morning was fine after rain, and there was a full attendance on the green under the swinging sign of The Beehive.
Old Mat sat by the muddy pond on his three-cornered cob. He was dressed, as always, in flat-topped hat, trousers, and elastic-sided boots; and he swung his legs mechanically against Ichabod's hardened sides.
About him was gathered the usual group of admiring ladies. They liked Old Mat as much as they disliked his daughter.
"I don't come 'ere to 'unt," the old man was saying wearily; "I come 'ere to putest. Yes, you can persecute me if you like, same as you do the fox, but if I live through it, as I 'ave before, I shall go 'ome to Mar, and next time you comes out I shall be there givin' my witness, de we." His face was firm and nobly resolute. "Crool, I calls it," he said. "Such a lot of you, too. Hosses and dogs, men and women, not to say perambylators. All on his back at once; and he'll beat the lot yet, you'll see. That's because he's got religion in him, little red fox has. His conscience is clear, same as mine." He looked about him. "Now there's Mr. Haggard there be the elm. He thinks just the very same as me—only he ain't got the spirit in him to stand up and say so. I'd 'a' wep a tear—only I ain't got one."
The Duke in his hunting cap sat close by on his cobby chestnut, which looked as if it had come out of an old hunting print, and the hounds sprawled about it in the sunshine on the green.
Silver rode up to the Duke, who greeted him ironically.
"Late as usual, Silver," he said. "We've been waiting for you since Christmas."
"Very good of you, sir," replied the young man. "I only came down from town this morning."