“Go on like a good chap,” said Lord Frederic, “stop that fellow or I shall be expelled from the hunt; perhaps put in jail. Was Ploversdale vexed?” he added.
“I should judge by his language,” said Mr. Carteret, “that he was vexed.”
“Hurry on,” said Lord Frederic. “Put your spurs in.”
Mr. Carteret gave his horse its head and he shot to the front, but Grady was nearly a field in the lead and it promised to be a long chase as he was on the Major’s black thoroughbred. The cowboy rode along with a loose rein and an easy balance seat. At his fences he swung his hat and cheered. He seemed to be enjoying himself and Mr. Carteret was anxious lest he might begin to shoot for pure delight. Such a demonstration would have been misconstrued. Nearly two hundred yards ahead at the heels of the pack galloped the Indians, and in the middle distance between them and Grady rode Lord Ploversdale and Smith vainly trying to overtake the hounds and whip them off. Behind and trailing over a mile or more came the field and the rest of the hunt servants in little groups, all awestruck at what had happened. It was unspeakable that Lord Ploversdale’s hounds which had been hunted by his father and his grandfather should be so scandalized.
Mr. Carteret finally got within a length of Grady and hailed him.
“Hello, Carty,” said Grady, “glad to see you. I thought you were sick. What can I do? They’ve stampeded. But it’s a great ad. for the show, isn’t it? I’ve got four reporters in a hack on the road.”
“Forget about the show,” said Mr. Carteret. “This isn’t any laughing matter. Ploversdale’s hounds are one of the smartest packs in England. You don’t understand.”
“It will make all the better story in the papers,” said Grady.
“No, it won’t,” said Mr. Carteret. “They won’t print it. It’s like a blasphemy upon the Church.”
“Whoop!” yelled Grady, as they tore through a bullfinch.