Nothing of the kind. That man is Grylls the harbourer, from the deer forest; but otter, not stag, has drawn him here this morning, and eagerness to examine the ground below is the reason of his haste. Already, glass to eye, he follows the course of the tributary on his left, hopeful every second of seeing an otter making its way to the clitter near the stream. How carefully he scans the banks, and what a time he dwells on the pile of hoary rocks yet spectral in the uncertain light! ‘No luck, no luck,’ he mutters, as he turns the glass to the tributary zigzagging across the western moor. Yet he is all expectation, and great will be his joy if only he can get a glimpse of the long, dark creature hieing to some holt. Away up to the boggy gathering ground he traces the narrowing water, surveys in vain the pools amidst that curlew-haunted waste, then with quick movement, redirects the glass to the clitter, already much less dim and mysterious. Little wonder that that particular refuge attracts him so strongly, that he scrutinizes the approaches so carefully. It was there that he once marked an otter enter; and the memory of the sport it gave has drawn him year after year to the hilltop in the hope of harbouring another. Again and again he surveys first one stream, then the other, but with no better result; then he hurriedly examines the river from the foot of the hill to Moor Pool, where the hounds will presently meet. ‘Nothin’ movin’, nothin’ at all, and day close handy. You may as well shut up the glass.’ Soon the fleecy clouds crowding the vault are tinged with rose, pool and stream catch the foreglow, the reflection in the tarn is like an almond grove in bloom, and the sun shows below the crimson streaks that had heralded it. At the sight Grylls returns the glass to his pocket and, feeling chilled, jumps to his feet and walks briskly up and down on the rim of the great basin to warm himself.
Had he seen an otter he would by this be crossing the moor to meet the squire and tell, instead of pacing to and fro waiting for the hounds and glancing down now and again towards the spot where he expects to see them. It is full day by this, and river and tributary stream stretch across the purple moorland like golden threads. ‘Grand mornin’. Ah! if we can only find!’ he sighed, as the uncertainty of the sport flashed across his mind. ‘If! But there, man, ’tes no use iffin’. Wait and hope for the best.’ All at once the harbourer stopped and, screwing up his eyes, looked steadily towards the solitary clump of pines to which from time to time he had directed his gaze. ‘Here they come, and a good few with ’em. Ah! ah! and there’s one, two, three, four comin’ up-river, and Matthey—it caan’t be anybody else—crossing the foord. There’ll be a brave little meet to end the season.’ Then he lay down again on the heather, raised the glass to his eye, and turned it on the party with the hounds. ‘The squire and the passun, of coorse. Wonder if church moosic or hound cry do stir un most. “Everything in its season, Grylls,” that would be his answer, and said kindly. He is a good sort, is the passun, and dearly loves a kill. And theere’s Doctor Jim, in his white hat. Lor’! he ain’t missed the Moor Pool meet for seven-and-thirty year. Iss, seven-and-thirty year, Grylls, and it’s seven-and-thirty times you’ve sat where you’re sittin’ now to the hour, and wellnigh to the day, and’—counting the notches on his stick—‘it’s nine otters you’ve seen killed on the moor. Who can they be with the Doctor? Strainyers, I reckon, stayin’ at the big house most like. Ah! theere’s Black Geordie, and the keeper, and the landlord, and Tom “Burn the Reed” walkin’ with the bailiff hisself as large as life and as brazen as Sally Strout at the christenin’. Well, he’s got a face, and no mistake! Wonder how many salmin he’s took out this turn.’
Thus he lay and made his comments whilst the party approached Moor Pool, but no sooner did they reach the bank than his demeanour changed and he sprang to his feet as though an adder had stung him. And no wonder, for the hounds at once struck the line of the otter, and made down-river at full cry. ‘Well now, Grylls,’ said he, ‘is it go or stay? Why, stay, of coorse; sure as you’re alive they’ll be back again.’ So he stood watching and watching and watching till hounds and men became blurred by distance, and at last disappeared into the wood. ‘You’re out of it, git chucklehead!’ said he, as he lowered the glass. ‘Why didn’t ’ee go down to the meet as you always do? You’re gettin’ lazy. You’re out of it, out of it, and come fifteen mile for nothin’! Pick up the pony and shog home along; there’s nothin’ else for ’ee to do.’ In his rage he kicked the loose rock at his feet, and sent it bounding down the face of the hill. Nevertheless, it was not many seconds before he was again scrutinizing the spot where the river falls to the ravine, and before long he exclaimed, ‘Halloo! what’s that? Ah, theere ’tes again and again; the glint of the horn, I’ll be bound.’ He was all excitement now, and watching as he had never watched before in his life. ‘What’s that—eh, eh? It’s they, it’s they! See, thee’re crossin’ the bend of Zingey Pool.’ Though the hounds were scarcely discernible he was right: they were returning and becoming more and more distinct every minute. ‘Hoorah,’ he shouted in his exultation; ‘the otter must have come up-water laast night; wheere’s he lyin’, wonder.’ His eyes, almost starting from his head, followed the pack as it drew nearer and nearer to Moor Pool. They reached it; then he was all anxiety to see whether they would take up the tributary or keep to the river. Like a man toeing the line for a foot-race he stood ready to start, and if they had gone up the stream he would have descended the hill at breakneck speed; but they did not: they came on. ‘Niver such a bit of luck in all my born days,’ said he, his weather-beaten face beaming with delight. Presently, as the deep bay, like the bay of bloodhounds, reached his ears: ‘What moosic! how wild and savage and grand it is! eh, and what a sight for one pair of eyes! The squire’d give gold to be in my shoes.’ Not for a single instant did the harbourer divert his gaze from the pack. ‘Pretty, pretty,’ he kept saying as the hounds, time after time, recovered the line momentarily lost. ‘They’re travellin’ fast. It’s time to be going down. I’ll lay a groat the otter’s in the Kieve.’ With a bound he was off and, following the overflow, had just reached the big boulder from which the buzzard sometimes watched the moor, when, to his surprise, he saw Dosmary and Tuneful just beginning the ascent of the hill.
‘Niver lyin’ up round the tarn! ’Tes ten year agone since they found theere. However, here they come, here the beauties come.’
There was a strange tenderness in his voice, but the light that leapt to his eyes told still more plainly how he was stirred. He watched them for a few moments, so that the whole pack was in sight before he began retracing his steps, and quickly as his sinewy legs carried him up the steep, the hounds had passed him when he gained the crest. Quivering with excitement, he stood again for a moment with his eyes on them as they streamed along the strand; then he tore along in their wake.
He might have covered twoscore yards, during which the pack had swept round the end of the tarn to the rocks, when a crash of music proclaimed the find, and brought him up in his stride. Soon the white-and-tan heads of the leading hounds showed as they rounded the point. One glance he gave them—only one: then his eyes were all for the otter. Whilst he watched the water well in front of the pack, the otter rose, shook his head, rested until his pursuers were within a few yards of him, and dived, showing his back and rudder. ‘Takin’ things quietly, are ’ee?’ said the harbourer in high glee; and then, presently, on observing the hounds lick up the scent as they swam, ‘They’re tonguing the ream brave.’ Scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when up came the otter within a few yards of him. The excited ‘Tally-ho!’ with which he greeted him made the welkin ring.
The squire would always have it that he heard the penetrating scream; but however that may be, it was a good half-hour before he appeared on the summit, and by that time the otter had given the pack the slip and set the harbourer wondering what had become of it. He was amongst the reeds and hidden by the rocks when the squire came up near the overflow, but his cries, as he cheered the pack, betrayed his whereabouts, and presently the squire hailed him across the tarn: ‘Have you viewed the otter, my man?’ ‘Iss, sir, over and over again, but he’s creapt away somewheere out of mark.’ The hounds raised their heads on hearing their master’s voice, and when he sang out, ‘Seek him, my lads! wind him, my lads!’ they bustled about, searching along the foot of the cliff as if they meant to find; and very soon they did find, but in a place where neither hounds nor terrier could reach the quarry. The doctor, who was nearest, at once made his way to the spot where the hounds were clamouring and, lying flat on the ledge, succeeded in dislodging the game from its retreat by means of the pole he carried. Thus driven from his only refuge, the otter got no rest. As a good scent guided the hounds, the hunted creature’s only chance lay in wearying out his pursuers. And what endurance he showed! He dived hither and thither for over three hours and never landed once; but all in vain, the pack showed no signs of tiring.
At last, in desperation, he slipped over the fall into the pool below and passed down the stream, searching for a hiding-place as he went. Soon he reached the boulder from which the harbourer had watched the hounds and, sighting the crevice at its base, swam through the narrow opening to the hollowed space within. Scarcely was he ensconced when he heard the cry of his pursuers, and a minute later the maddened creatures were roaring at the mouth of his retreat. Squire and followers came tearing down the hill, and when the whipper-in had succeeded in calling off the hounds, Venom, the terrier, was sent in to drive the otter out. ‘He’ll soon have un out,’ said a man in a blue guernsey who knew his worth. But hard and game as the terrier was, the otter was his match. So the squire must have thought, for he determined to send Vic to his assistance. As soon as she was released, the eager little thing swam whining along the passage and joined in the fight; but, owing to the cramped quarters, instead of assisting her mate she hampered him. Once the tip of the otter’s rudder showed momentarily, raising the excitement to fever-pitch; but this was followed by a long spell during which not a hair of either terrier or otter was visible.
‘They’ll never drive un, squire,’ the woodman ventured to say. ‘Why not flood the varmint out? Theere’s a good head of water.’
‘Too good a head, I fear; but we’ll try. The terriers have had about enough. Get ’em out if you can.’