The line stops; the judge, slipper, and dogs come round, pass through the excited crowd, and join Matthey, who points out the hare, or rather the spot where she is lying, for he alone can see her. He is then directed to start her, and with him go the judge and the slipper. When they are within five yards of the form, out goes the little Jack, his head set in the direction of Bartinney. The greyhounds strain at the leash, dragging the slipper with them, but not until the hare has forty yards’ start does the judge give the word to loose them. Like arrows released from the bow, they are off, and every eye is on them. Seldom if ever has a more exciting course been witnessed.
At first the greyhounds gain on the hare, but the rising ground to which he is leading them is in his favour, for there at almost every bound his pursuers sink into the stunted furze skirting the narrow “run” he knows so well.
Near the top of the hill better foothold enables them to hold their own, but they do not regain an inch of the ground they have lost. At amazing speed the hare passes the crowd on Bartinney a good thirty yards ahead of the greyhounds, and takes to the eastern slope. So far not a point has been scored by either dog, but near the foot of the hill Fleetfoot turns the hare, and then it looks as though Beeswing must kill. Scarcely ten yards separate greyhound and hare as they sweep across the two furlongs of flat ground that runs up to the moorland farm over which the Jack has so often wandered. A sudden turn lets in Fleetfoot, and the greyhounds are dead level, with the hare just in front of them, when a hundred yards from the gate for which he is heading. Surely he will never reach it . . . yes, for the greyhounds are jumping the gate as he passes underneath, and even as they are in mid-air he doubles back under it and follows the cattle-track skirting the boundary-wall of the farm. When the dogs view him again, he is at least thirty yards to the good once more, and heading for Caer Bran. Gradually they reduce his lead, and beyond an open stretch of turf, where, to the surprise of the judge, Beeswing had given Fleetfoot the go-by, points are scored by both dogs; and then a wilderness of pits and mounds receives the hare just in time to save him from Beeswing’s jaws. At headlong speed he threads this maze just in front of the greyhounds, making the air hum as he dashes along the rough ways.
On issuing from it the hare turns suddenly to the left, and skirts some furze-bushes that screen him from the gaze of the dogs. See! they have lost him, but the high springs they are taking will enable them to sight him the instant he leaves the shelter of the last furze-bush. Yes, they view him at once; and the course is resumed under the eyes of the spectators on Caer Bran. To them, in spite of the twenty yards he has gained, it seems impossible for the Jack to reach the Beacon, for which he is now evidently making. Moreover, the steep lane he takes to, in full view of the greyhounds, is all in their favour and, rapid as is the pace of the hare, the leaps of the greyhounds are bringing them close to his scut. They are running neck and neck, and almost mouthing him.
At this critical moment he rushes through a bolt-hole in a single-stone wall, in clearing which the greyhounds show again in the air together. He keeps to the rough grass-field on the other side until they are nearly on him, and then, as suddenly as before, passes through another opening in the wall, crosses the lane, and threads some scattered furze-bushes on a narrow strip of common that lies at the foot of Sancreed Beacon. Whether the greyhounds were exhausted by the long course, or whether they lost sight of the hare, is not certain; at all events they were found in a very distressed condition, lying side by side on a patch of grass amongst the furze, and the little Jack got clear away.
“Bravo, puss!” were the judge’s words, as he followed the hare with his eyes as far as the little plantation of storm-bent pines half-way up the hill. Mr Heber was not the last to view him, for Uncle Johnnie Lairdner, the sexton, was on the Beacon when the hare passed over it, and has left it on record that though the Jack was black with sweat, no sign of arch in his back could he see, and he was goin’ like a ball.
The greyhounds were at once taken to Sancreed Churchtown; and thither the spectators hurried, across croft and field, every one anxious to know which dog was adjudged the victor. The excitement in the town-place baffles description. The St Just men would have it that their dog had won, and of these no one was more conspicuous than was he whose eyes yet showed traces of the fight. The Buryan men were not quite so confident, though they knew that their dog had never run better. Some noticed, after the rivals had exchanged a few words with the judge, that Digory looked disappointed and Pendre jubilant; but this was set down to difference of temperament, and not until at last the judge spoke, did the impatient crowd know the result of the course.
Standing in a wagonette between the owners, this—and here let me thank the Editor of the Land’s End Courier for a copy of the speech—is what Mr Heber said: —
“Gentlemen, I have judged at many meetings, but never at one where so great an interest has been taken in a single course. You may tell me that this is the result of parish rivalry, but I strongly suspect that at the bottom of it lies that love of sport which characterises no Englishman more than a Cornishman, and no Cornishman more than a native of St Just.” His voice was feeble for so big a man, but now it sank almost to a whisper.