"But why can't I stop in my hen-house?" I objected.
"Because I've just moved the pack there," said he.
"But why?" I went on. "What's the matter with the ice-house?"
"That's just it," he hissed in my ear; "it isn't an ice-house—never was; it's the De Valcourt family vault."
The next day being propitious, we decided to hold our first meet that evening, and issued a few invitations. The Veterinary Bloke and the Field Cashier promised to show up, likewise the Padre, once the sacredness of our cause had been explained to him.
At noon "stables" Albert Edward reported the pack in fine fettle. "Kicking up a fearful din and look desperate enough to hunt a holy angel," said he. "At five o'clock, me lad, Hard forrard! Tally-ho! and Odds-boddikins!"
However at 4.45 p.m., just as I was mounting, he appeared in my lines wearing slacks and a very downcast expression.
"Wash-out," he growled; "they've been fed and are now lying about, blown up and dead to the world."
"But who the devil fed them?" I thundered.
"They fed themselves," said Albert Edward. "They ate the blooming lucky dog at half-past four."