Hardcastle found no partridge in the long pasture that led to Draycott’s farm; but a hare got up under his feet as he neared the gate. Most shots came easily to Hardcastle, but from boyhood’s days a hare had roused always the same surprise, with its lopping stride that seemed slow and bulky, disguising a strong wind’s speed.
He missed now with the first barrel—at simple range—and puss got into a scrub of hazels that climbed the hillside. When she ran through it, brown against the grey rocks above, she was out of range to all but the most sanguine fancy. Hardcastle gave her the left barrel at a venture, and his heart warmed as he saw her sprawl every way at once and lie still against the rocks.
When he went to pick her up and found her shot cleanly through the head, he took it for a good omen. Long hazards seemed to be his luck, and he needed many kinds of luck these days.
Old Michael Draycott was sitting up in the great four-poster bed when Hardcastle went in. The man’s apple-red face was paler than its wont, but his eyes were keen and shrewd as ever.
“I’ll know more than you before so very long,” was Draycott’s greeting.
“You know more already, Michael—the ways of sheep, and land tending, and things I learned from you as a lad.”
“Aye, and I could still teach you summat about horses and dogs, though you’ll differ as to that. But I wasn’t thinking of such matters. Before long I’ll take a journey no man knows t’other side of—and in a twinkling I’ll be wiser than all Logie-side. I’m not afraid, you’ll know—I’m just in a fret to be gone, and know what lies beyond, and be master of you all.”
“You’ll not be master yet, for you’re not within sight of dying, Michael.”
“You were always very free with your opinions. Why shouldn’t I die, with all my bones a-tremble, and a wambling back and front of me?”
“Because your father lived to ninety, and you’re a lad of sixty-five. He’d think shame of you to creep over the Border at your time of day.”