Was the dog really gaining? It was a fine course. The hare was evidently a late leveret of the previous season; the dog was scarcely more than seven months old. How would it end? The Over-Lord stood and watched, determined that none should interfere. There should be fair play in a fair field, if he could only keep a grip upon these others that were whimpering and shivering and straining at the leash. He had passed the thong of his whip through the collar of the old dog, so all were really well within control.
Would the young dog last? That was the crucial question. The hare had had many a run before this to save her skin, and was hardened by the life of the breezy downs and the wide fields. But the dog had never previously been tried in such a way: his life had been more or less an artificial one, and he had never been called upon to lay himself out, or been put to such a strain as these almost maddening moments entailed. Catch this thing somehow he must. Were not his comrades looking on? Did not the very silence of the Over-Lord seem to demand of him his very best? There appeared, however, to be no getting level with this animal of surprising fleetness of foot, that seemed to glide over the ground with perfect ease, and that responded gamely to every effort that he made.
The group of lookers-on watched the more intently. Now the hare by a clever turn increased her lead; then once again the dog made good the ground lost. The hare had come back by this time almost to the starting-point. Closer and closer drew the dog: the hare seemed to be swaying in her stride. The dog’s tongue was out at any length, and his pant was clearly audible. Once again the hare doubled, and the dogs with the Over-Lord gave tongue, as though they cheered their comrade. Then with a fling and a dash Murphy was into it: there was a scuffle in the snow, and the next instant the young dog was seen to be holding the hare down.
Making his way to the two, taking the dogs upon leash and thong short by the head, and keeping them back by the free use of his feet, the Over-Lord seized the hare and rescued it; Murphy being too beat now to do more than lie stretched out, panting.
“Well, I’m...!”—The Over-Lord was passing a hand as well as he could over the frightened hare, holding it high to his chest.—“Run to a standstill, and not so much as harmed. Well, I’m...!”
He had let go the other dogs now. They were barking and jumping round him, and to avoid risk he was covering up the hare beneath his coat. His face was a study as he looked at Murphy lying in the snow. No fault was to be found with the dog; that was very certain. He had been given an opportunity of showing what he could do. The snow had equalised the race. And this was the end—the hare not hurt at all. He would look again at her presently. It had been a pretty sight: Nature’s working; no real cruelty in any of it. Such were the thoughts that were passing in the tall man’s mind.
All turned homeward after that, the Over-Lord’s feet scrunching the snow as he took great strides, a smile lighting up his face. Four of his dogs were close to his heels, as though they expected something; a yard or two behind followed a younger one, with his tongue out level with his chest.
Later on in the day, when all the dogs were kennelled up, the Over-Lord might have been seen leaving the mill-yard, with something he carried in a bag, taking long draws at his pipe, and still with a smile upon his face. He was making his way alone to the open fields, and across these to where there was shelter under a hedge. Having reached his point, he stooped to the ground; and then there sped from him, as he rose, a hare, unharmed in wind and limb.
He looked long after it, to make sure. Then he rubbed his chin with his pipe in his hand, and remarked aloud, “Run to a standstill, and never harmed. Well, I’m...!” And once again that day he checked himself from using a bad, if sometimes almost pardonable, word.