“I can tell by your breathless attention that you are anxious to know which dog I judge the winner of the stakes. That my decision will be loyally accepted by loser as by winner I have not a shadow of a doubt.” In the pause which followed, the cock in the glebe farm crowed. “Gentleman, I have never had a more difficult course to adjudicate on; I have never seen two better dogs run side by side, I may say, neck to neck. One of the greyhounds is already famous, having won the blue ribbon of the Leash; the other, a dog of pure Cornish breed, is known as the Champion of Cornwall. There is little to choose between these two wonderful dogs; but there is a difference, if slight, on to-day’s form, and I declare Beeswing the winner by a single point.”
The applause, renewed again and again by nearly all except the St Just men, was deafening: it scared the jackdaws away from the church tower. It was a trying few minutes for the losers, who stared at the elated winners with angry eyes, their fists clenched, and their faces white. They might indeed have come to blows if Digory had not spoken; but if the St Just men were resolved to break the peace the following speech averted a collision.
“Fellow Cornishmen, I little thought when bidding farewell to the men of my claim that the next occasion on which I should address an assembly would be in Sancreed Churchtown. Silence is golden, they say; but to-day’s proceedings will, in my opinion, be all the better for being rounded off with a few words of conciliation. First, let me thank Mr Heber for coming all this way to act as judge. No more competent man could have been chosen; and though his verdict is against my dog, I accept it without demur, and frankly own that to-day Fleetfoot was beaten! Mr Pendre,” said he, turning to the farmer, whose white hat was tilted on the back of his head, “I congratulate you on your success. I own that I never thought your dog would be a match for the winner of the Cup; but believe me, though I confess to being disappointed, ‘nip and tuck’ race though it was, I find some consolation in the fact that it was by a dog of pure Cornish pedigree that Fleetfoot was beaten.
“One other thing, gentlemen, let us not forget the wonderful staying power of that little Jack, which practically ran both dogs to a standstill.” (Hear, hear, from the judge.)
“The only fault to be found with Cornish hares is, that there are too few of them. In furtherance of sport in general as well as for my own pleasure, I purpose, if the farmers do not object, releasing a hundred hares on the waste land between Mulfra and Kenidzhek. If I settle down at home, I should like to be able to calculate on our having a good day’s coursing together. Some people who have never been abroad wonder that I do not return to the Far West. My answer is, ‘a hare on our own downses means more to me than a bear on a furrin’ range.’ (Great applause.) I do not know that I have anything further to add than to ask Mr Pendre to shake hands with the loser.”
Now, after the hard things that had been said about Digory, this was considered very handsome on his part; so that even the Buryan men, whilst emotion swayed them, felt sorry that he had lost, and after the rivals had shaken hands amidst thundering applause the Buryan men kept crying, “Pendre, Pendre,” till the farmer, though unused to any meeting bigger than an Easter Vestry or Balleswidden “account,” felt that, all “mizy-mazy” as his brain was, he must say something.
“Gentlemen, I never felt so flambustered in all my born days. I’m no orator like Mr Strout, but I also should like to thank the judge for his day’s work. Gentlemen, what’s the use of saying to the contrary when you don’t feel it? I’m glad that Beeswing won, and it’s downright honest truth, though I say it (great laughter) . . . I couldn’t have lost and not showed it, like Mr Strout. Maybe that comes of travellin’ in furrin’ paarts, for I’ve never been out of sight of Buryan tower for a whole day in my life. Now let me tell ee somethin’. It is not the furst, it’s not the second time that Beeswing has coused that leel Jack; and I knawed un the minit he jumped up by a whitey mark on the niddick. In conclusion, let me tell ee to your face, Mr Strout, that you’re a sportsman; and if I’ve shawed ee any ill feelin’, and I fear I have, I ask ee to overlook it. I wish ee well, and every St Just man godspeed.” (Applause.)
Thus amicably ended that day’s coursing match, which is now a tradition, its minutest details accurately passed on by the farmers in the chimney-corners of the West Country.
Digory was as good as his word; and in the following June a consignment of a hundred and fifteen hares arrived at Penzance from Salisbury Plain. These were set free on Bartinney, Mulfra, the Galver, Kenidzhek and the Dry Cairn, and for some years afterwards the country was well stocked.
Unfortunately the conditions of existence have proved too hard for them, and little by little they have had to yield in the struggle against their many enemies, until to-day a hare is as scarce in the Land’s End district as when Digory returned home from the Rocky Mountains. Nevertheless, a few hardy survivors are still found on the hills; and when, as generally happens, the hare outruns the dogs—descendants perhaps of Beeswing and Fleetfoot—the disappointed sportsman attributes its escape, not to witchcraft, but to stamina derived from the strain of the little Jack of Bartinney.