“Who invited you?” inquired Lord Ploversdale.
“One of your own bunch,” said Grady, “Lord Frederic Westcote. I’m no butterin.”
“Your language is difficult to understand,” said Lord Ploversdale. “Where is Lord Frederic Westcote?”
Mr. Carteret had watched the field approaching as fast as whip and spur could drive them, and in the first flight he noticed Lord Frederic and the Major. For this reason he still hesitated about thrusting himself into the discussion. It seemed that the interference of a third party could only complicate matters, inasmuch as Lord Frederic would so soon be upon the spot.
Lord Ploversdale looked across the field impatiently. “I’ve no doubt, my good fellow, that Lord Frederic Westcote brought you here and I’ll see him about it, but kindly take these fellows home. They’ll kill all my hounds.”
“Now you’re beginning to talk reasonable,” said Grady. “I’ll discuss with you.”
The words were hardly out of his mouth before hounds gave tongue riotously and went off. The fox had slipped out of the other end of the drain and old Archer had found the line.
As if shot out of a gun the three Indians dashed at the stake-and-bound fence on the farther side of the road, joyously using their heavy quirts on the Major’s thoroughbreds. Skytail’s horse being hurried too much, blundered his take-off, hit above the knees and rolled over on the Chief who was sitting tight. There was a stifled grunt and then the Pawnee word “Go-dam!”
Hole-in-the-Ground looked back and laughed one of the few laughs of his life. It was a joke which he could understand. Then he used the quirt again to make the most of his advantage.