Darby observed gravely that it was not usual for him to hunt squirrels, and cheered on Grandjer and Beauty.
They flew back down the hill, hounds running almost in view.
"I shall never go back to Kent. I'll hunt all day long," breathed Psyche wildly.
"She yappin' to herself the same as Home Ruler, an' he behind tirened out," remarked Phil to Andy. "Listen to her, an' she off afther the Masther an' howldin' his arrum an' he lookin' for his bugle!"
"The craythur!" said Pat. "She'd see nothin' but baynits in England now and Zeppylins, an' then to be out like this is life to her."
But running down wind scent failed again. Slowly, earnestly, hounds puzzled it out, now one flinging forward with a long yowl, then dropping into silence almost angrily. Slowly they trailed it on until they were absolutely at fault on some scrubby ground. Darby did not, as a rule, help the scratch pack; he looked on while George Freyne blew his whistle, and Mr. Keefe fussed about like a red-faced bee, and the steady old stagers took no absolute notice of them.
But to-day, with Castle Freyne in front, he meant to cast forward; they might catch their fox in the woods when scent held better. Barty and Carty got round the puzzled pack and whipped them on to him.
Dearest George was in a bad humour. Their return to Castle Freyne at this hour would mean everyone in for drinks, late lunch and tea. His petty spirit rebelled, and he thrust his dual mastership forward.
"That fox is back, Darby, over the hill."
"He is not," said Darby mildly.