‘Divil a doubt of it; but I seen him here one day, just under the range, pinning a “joey,” and I kept lavin’ a bit of mate for him, just to make him trot over regular—maybe a bullock’s heart or a hock of a heifer’s calf, maybe a bird I’d shot. Dingoes is mortial fond of birds. I seen his tracks here yesterday, and med sure he’d be here wonst more, for the last time, and here he is forenint us now—glory be to God!’
‘Then he’s safe to be a straight goer?’
‘It’s twelve mile to the lake, and he’ll make for the little rise, where there’s rocks, just before you come to Long Point. If he’s pushed there, he’ll maybe turn to the Limestone Hill, at the back of the big house, where there’s caves—my curse on thim—and then good-bye.’
‘This is pretty country, if there was more fencing,’ said the Master. ‘Perhaps it is as well, though, as there are so many ladies out. The hounds are running like smoke.’
The nature of the ground at this point of the hunt was such as to admit of all being reasonably well up. True, the pack went at considerable speed. The scent was burning, and there were no small enclosures, as in ‘Merrie England,’ to check the more delicate damsels or inexperienced horsemen. The sward was sound and firm, the tall-stemmed eucalypti stood far apart in the southern forest-park. Bob Clarke and the Benmohr division, Hampden and the Gambiers, rode easily in front. Rosamond, Miss Rockley, Miss Fane, and a few other ladies, who were exceptionally well mounted, had no difficulty in keeping their places.
‘So this is fox-hunting!’ said Miss Fane. ‘That is, so far as we can have the noble sport without the fox. It is nice to see the hounds running so compactly. And I like the musical composite cry with its harmonies and variations.’
‘This dingo,’ said Wilfred, who had established himself at her bridle-rein, ‘is running very straight and fast. If he makes for the range behind the house, we shall see him and have a little fencing too.’
‘I don’t object to a jump or two,’ said the young lady, ‘if they are not too stiff. This is the sort of pace that enables one to look about. But I should like to see the hounds work a little more.’
While this conversation was proceeding, every one was at their ease, and voted the sport most delightful. The front rankers were sailing along, while the hounds were carrying a good head and forcing Master Dingo along at a pace which prevented him from availing himself of one or two hiding-places.
However, just as Rosamond had compared herself to the Landgrave, in the German ballad, sweeping on in endless chase, with a horseman on either hand—St. Maur on the right on a coal-black steed, and Fred Churbett on the left on the rejoicing Duellist—wondering how long they were going to have such a pleasant line of country, through which Fergus was luxuriously striding as if he had commenced the first part of a fifty-mile stage, the scene changed. The confident pack checked, and commenced a circular performance which betrayed indecision, if not failure of scent.