"I'd say it will not fit on aisy," said Phil dubiously, coming round. He held up a brightly new Klaxon and scratched his head with his free hand.
"I—Matilda!" yelled George Freyne hopelessly.
"Dearest George," said Matilda placidly.
"I—told you—a hunting horn—weeks ago! Years ago! There was a delay in sending it."
"You said the very loudest one, Dearest George," said Matilda pleasantly. "All the stores were short owing to the war. I did wonder what you could fix it on to, but as you said a whistle too. Isn't there a whistle in the box, Phil?"
"Move on, Barty," said Darby with decision.
CHAPTER VII
Darby Dillon left his fellow master glaring at the Klaxon horn and rode up to the hounds. There was no eager greeting to him of quick yaps and wagging sterns, but rather a distinctly critical surveillance, and liquid eyes looking for the men on foot whom the pack knew.
Seen gathered together, the scratch pack were not prepossessing.
Darby grinned softly at the varieties of hound types, at Greatness's crooked legs and Daisy's snub nose, and especially at the crop-tailed Grandjer, so nearly related to a terrier.