"Safe to," answers Pendell, "last day of hunting—all the ladies out—sort of show meet, and lounge."
Pasties, flagons, dames, gallants with lutes, and pages with beakers of wine. I am all anxiety to start.
The Drive.—Bleak, misty, sharp, dreary. I am in summer costume of flannels, intended for running. Hope we shall have some running, as at present I'm blue with cold and shivering.
Six miles finished.—We get out at a tumble-down roadside inn. Three boys, each one lankier and colder-looking than the other, are standing together with their hands in their pockets, there being evidently among them a dearth of gloves. A rough man in a velveteen coat and leggings appears, carrying a sort of quarter-staff spiked. I connect him at once with otters. Pendell returns his salute. This is the Huntsman. The three chilly boys are the Field. We are all shivering, and evidently only half awake. Is this what Pendell calls a "show meet, and a lounge?"
Flash.—To say brightly, "Well, it couldn't have been colder for an otter hunt." The chilly boys hearing this, turn away, the man with the spear takes it literally and is offended, "because," he says, "we might ha' had a much worse day." Pendell says to himself, thoughtfully. "Um—colder—otter—ha! Yes, I see. I've made that myself lots of times." I thought that down here, perhaps, it wouldn't have been known. Never risk an old joke again. If I feel it's the only one I've got, preface it by saying, "Of course you've heard what the Attorney-General said the other day to (some one)?" and then, if on being told, they say, "O! that's very old," why it's not your fault.
A fly appears on the road with the Master. He welcomes Pendell and friend heartily and courteously. Is sorry that it's the last meet. Thinks it's a bad day, and in the most genial manner possible damps all my hopes of seeing an otter. "A few weeks ago," he says, "there were plenty of otters."
Flash.—To find out if that spearing-picture is correct. Show myself deeply interested in otters.
The Master says that spearing is unsportsmanlike. Damper number two. No spears. We walk on, and get a little warmer.
More "Field" meets us: some mounted.
Note on Otter-Hunting.—Better than fox-hunting, because you trust to your own legs. You can't be thrown, you can't be kicked off, or reared off; and, except you find yourself alone with the otter in a corner, there's no danger.