"Hounds, please, gentlemen; hounds, please," says old Tom Wilding, as he threads his way through the field, who have, in their eagerness, ridden over the line. "Now, where the deuce should t' fox a gotten to, I wonder?" thinks he to himself; "Harbinger made it good across the lane, I swear, for I saw 'im, and there's naught to turn 'im that I can see." But there is; for an old woman, innocent of mischief, suddenly raises her much-be-bonneted head out of the turnips right in front, and with a "Dang her ugly mug," Tom makes a swinging cast for'ard. Minstrel, hitting off the scent under the gate[Pg 17] out of the field, is promptly corroborated in his statement by Gaylad, and in a second things are going as jolly as a peal of bells.

The old Huntsman stops just a moment before pulling his horse together at the timber, to give "t' ould wench" a bit of his mind. "Look here," says he, "you've frightened fox away with that danged ould top-knot o' your'n. I be a good mind to——" But the old lady drops a most humble curtsy, and looks so penitent, that his anger vanishes, a smile steals over his face, and with a "Coom up," he pops over the rails and gets to his hounds. A bit of a martinet is Tom, and right well does he know how to keep his whips in order. Ay, and for the matter of that, some of the fire-eaters of the field besides.

Woe betide the unfortunate Harry who, keen as mustard, slips away, leaving two couple and a half behind. "All here?" says Tom. "A couple coming up, sir," replies Harry (he thinks it better to economise the truth as to numbers); "they are close[Pg 18] behind." "Then what the devil business have you in front of them? Get back and bring 'em along at once. D'ye suppose my second whip's come out as a horniment?" (Tom, when excited, is a little shaky with his h's.) "If you don't know your business I can jolly soon get someone who does. There's lots of chaps to do the riding without you a-figuring about here. Get back at once, and let me catch you a-leaving hounds behind again." Yet in his heart he thinks none the worse of the lad for being keen to get along in front, and remembers How often he himself has been rated in bygone days for the same offence.

Of course Tom has his aversions, and there is one particular individual who, he says, he "just can't abear"—a Captain Stockley, one of the galloping-and-jumping division, who, although he can ride anything and over anything, knows little of hunting as hunting per se, and is always getting on top of the pack. One day, when he had managed to[Pg 19] head the fox twice, the first whip, Charles, allowed his feelings to get the better of him, and holloed: "Hold hard, sir; d——n it, give 'em a chance;" whereupon Stockley rode up to Tom, and with a bland smile said: "I am sorry to be obliged to make a complaint, but one of the whips has been very impudent—in fact, he cursed me." The reply was not quite what the Captain expected, for Tom, seeing the cause of the two mischances in front of him, growled out: "He cursed yer, did he? Well, if it 'ad a-been me, I'd a gi'en yer a jolly good hiding;" and then catching his horse by the head he drove him at the wood fence, and was cheering on the pack before the Captain had recovered from his surprise.

However, we left him just out of the turnips, with the hounds settling down to the line. Everything goes well for some ten minutes, there is a burning scent, lots of fencing for those who like it, and a convenient lane for those who don't. All of a sudden the hounds throw their heads up and spread like a[Pg 20] fan. Not a sign does the Huntsman make beyond holding up his hand to stop the rush of the field. But with one eye on the pack, and the other looking forward to where the sheep are scampering across the meadow on the hillside and huddling together in a close column, he sits like a statue. Deaf is he to the remonstrances of the eager ones, who say: "It's for'ard, Tom; get along," merely remarking: "Let 'em puzzle it out; they want to hunt now. Yer can always lift 'em, but yer can't always get their heads down again;" and in a few moments he is rewarded by seeing the hounds work it out of their own accord, and dash forward, proud of their own cleverness.

Some of the strangers to the Bullshire country say Tom is slow, but they do not know the old man. See him in another half hour, when the fox is beginning to run short. They are beginning to look for their second horses, and someone remarks that Charles is away. Suddenly a cap is seen in the air some[Pg 21] four fields to the right, and "Hoick, holloa, hoick, holloa!" rings out clear. "Who is that?" ask some of the field. "Why, it's Charles! how the deuce did he get there?" say others. The Huntsman, however, knows well how it all came about, for did not he send Charles off to the high ground overlooking Bromley Wood on the off chance of a view? and now he does not wait an instant to discuss the question, but with a "chink-wink" of the horn and with cap in hand he gallops off, lifting the pack almost on to the fox's back.

Two fields farther on his "Who-whoop" tells everybody that all is over, and as they ride up one after another they see the old man, with his gray hairs streaming in the breeze, standing in the middle of his hounds, holding aloft the fox at arm's length, preparatory to giving his body over to the tender mercies of Traveller, Gaylad, and Co. "Eugh, tear 'im and eat 'im," and the "worry, worry" begins. Tom looks up at his young master with a smile, and says: "We've got the ould divil[Pg 22] this time, sir; he's beat us often enough before;" and then raising his voice so as to be heard by all, he continues: "None so slow either. If we had'na let t' hounds work it out theirselves, fox would a-been a-going now. Where to, sir?" as he swings into his saddle. "Bromley Wood? right, sir. Coom away, hounds; coop, coop, coom away;" and Tom trots off with the pack best pace, for, as he remarks: "It's lunch-time now, and if so be I bestirs mysen I can leave about half t' field behind; and that's just what I like. I can get away comfortable without a lot a-trampling and messing over t' hounds, and them as likes eating better nor hunting, why they've no cause to grumble if they're chucked out."

As he approaches the wood, a wave of the hand sends the whole pack tumbling in, the two whips taking their stations like clockwork. With a "'War'oss!" the old Huntsman jumps into cover, and though lost to sight his voice is heard out of the woods cheering on his hounds. "Eugh, at 'im, my beauties. Eugh,[Pg 23] doit, eugh, boys," he shouts; and the pack, who have learnt to love, ay, and what is more, respect their tutor, fly to his holloa, each doing what our American cousins call their "level best" to please him.

Tom, when he gets home, will not fail over his glass and pipe to recount exactly what each of his favourites did at each particular spot, for nothing escapes his quick eye, and he fully returns with interest the love of the Bullshire Hounds, of which he has been Huntsman for some eighteen years, and in which position he hopes to remain until he is, as he puts it, "run to ground."

Before leaving him, one anecdote will suffice to show the kindliness of the old man's heart towards dumb animals. They had had a long wearing day over a heavy country, with but little or no scent, and Tom found himself on leaving off some eighteen miles from the kennels. On arrival, after seeing that his darlings were all right (a duty he never neglected), he thought it about time to[Pg 24] look after himself, and had just sat down to his well-earned supper, when a small boy arrived at his house, crying fit to break his heart. "What's up, my lad?" said Tom. "P-p-please, sir," replied the urchin between his sobs, "old Bob's b-b-een runned over, and they is broke 'is leg, bo-hoo! and mother s-says as how he mun be shot—for her canna mend it; and if yer p-please, Bob allas slept along wi' me sin' 'e wur a puppy, a-and I c-can't abear it, bo-hoo!" "Well, boy, don't 'e cry; I'll come down mysen and see tew 'im," said the old Huntsman; and, tired and supperless as he was, he there and then put on his coat and tramped off the best part of a mile to see to the crippled terrier, and after setting the leg and making the poor dog as comfortable as he could, he sat up best part of the night nursing it as a mother would her baby. It was three o'clock in the morning before Tom got into his bed; and he will tell you how tired he was, but he will also say: "Poor old doggie, 'e was just for all the[Pg 25] world like a Christian. There was none on 'em as knowed aught about it, and when I'd done 'is leg he wagged 'is stump of a tail, saying plain enough: 'Don't 'e go now; I'm main thankful to yer, but don't 'e go,' that I couldna a-bear to leave 'im till 'e wur a bit more comfortable like. You see, we can holloa out, but them dum' animals canna." Bob, the old dog, is still alive, and the boy is now an under-keeper, but neither of them forget old Tom's kindness, and both would almost lay down their lives for the Huntsman of the Bullshire Hounds.