“Don’t shoot the deer!”
“Ah-h-h! I seed ’un—a gert buck with his jaw out, an’ not gone six minutes, seemin’ly. Turnin’ left-handed, zur, to Ridley. There’s a herd o’ bucks afore ’un, too.”
“Forrard on!”
Ravager and Whistler, who had been leading, now gave pride of place to Welladay and Armlet. Old hounds know full well when their quarry is sinking. The gallant buck turned again, right-handed, and swung between Picket Post and Burley upon an open plain where hounds got a view of him. They coursed him, running mute, for nearly a mile, and at last rolled him over in the open. A ten-mile point from where the pack was laid on and eleven from the couch where he was roused. Time—one hour and forty minutes!
“A clinker,” said Lionel to Margot.
After the last rites had been swiftly performed, the Master took Lionel aside.
“Who is the little lady? She went like a bird.”
When he heard her name he laughed and winked knowingly. Evidently the Squire had been talking indiscreetly. The Master chuckled and winked again as he said:
“This deer’s head, set up by Rowland Ward, would make a corkin’ wedding present—what?”
Hounds went back to kennels.