“Upon my word!” exclaimed Miss de Compton; “that fox ought to go free. I shall beg Mr. Tunison—”
But before she finished her sentence the dogs came into view, and I could hardly restrain a shout of triumph as I saw Flora running easily and unerringly far to the front. Behind her, led by Captain—and so close together that, as Uncle Plato afterward remarked, “You mout kivver de whole caboodle wid a hoss-blanket”—were the remainder of the Tunison kennel, while the Jasper county hounds were strung out behind in wild but heroic confusion. I felt strongly tempted to give the view-halloo, and push “Old Sandy” to the wall at once, but I knew that the fair de Compton would regard the exploit with severe [v]reprobation forever after. Across the ravine and to the fence the dogs came, their voices, as they got nearer, crashing through the silence like a chorus of demons.
Now was the critical moment. If Flora should fail me—!
Several of the older dogs topped the rails, and scattered through the undergrowth. Flora came over with them, made a small circle, with her sensitive nose to the damp earth, and then went rushing down the fence. Past the point where “Old Sandy” took his flying leap she ran, turned suddenly to the left, and came swooping back in a wide circle. I had barely time to warn Miss de Compton that she must prepare to do a little rapid riding, when my favorite, with a fierce cry of delight that thrilled me through and through, picked up the blazing [v]drag, and away we went with a scream and a shout. I felt in my very bones that “Old Sandy” was doomed. I had never seen Flora so prompt and eager; I had never observed the scent to be better. Everything was auspicious.
We went like the wind. Miss de Compton rode well, and the long stretches of stubble land through which the chase led were unbroken by ditch or fence. The pace of the hounds was simply terrific, and I knew that no fox on earth could long stand up before the white demon that led the hunt with such splendor.
Five—ten—fifteen minutes we rushed at the heels of the rearmost dogs, until, suddenly, we found ourselves in the midst of the pack. The scent was lost! Flora ran about in wide circles, followed by the greater portion of the dogs. To the left, to the right they went. At that moment, chancing to look back, I caught a glimpse of “Old Sandy,” broken down and bedraggled, making his way toward a clump of briars. He had played his last [v]trump and lost. Pushed by the dogs, he had dropped in his tracks and literally allowed them to run over him. I rode at him with a shout; there was a short, sharp race, and in a few moments [v]La Mort was sounded over the famous fox on the horn that the Jasper county boys did not win.
Joel Chandler Harris.
HELPS TO STUDY
This gives a good picture of a fox hunt in the South in the long ago. Tell what you like best about it. Who is telling the story? Was he young or old? How do you know? What opinion do you form of the “fair de Compton”? See if you can get an old man, perhaps a negro, to tell you of a fox hunt he has seen.
SUPPLEMENTARY READING