The Earthstopper, having snatched a little sleep in his arm-chair, has returned to the lake to await the hounds. There he is, sitting on the fallen tree over which the otter passed three hours ago. Its footprints are marked on the sand between the lines of drift that tell of dwindling springs on the moorland, and of the winds that ruffled the sinking lake. In shape, the three acres of water resemble the shadow of a hand with outstretched fingers. The rhododendrons cover the triangle of ground between the narrow channel of the inflow and the creek next it; the fingers of stagnant water are fringed with reeds. The old man is wondering where the otter, if it has not returned to the cliffs, may be lying up. His eyes wander to the likely places; to the island, to the hollow banks, to the clump of bushes, to the reed-bed over which a mist hangs, half veiling the blush of morning on the stems of the pines beyond. He does not waste a glance on the bare bank opposite, or its solitary willow whose tender green foliage stands out against the sombre hillside. Turning his head he sees the hounds coming down the hill below the cairn. They are not very wide of the line taken by the otter at dawn. Only a small field is out. With Sir Bevil, who carries the horn, are the parson, the doctor, and half a dozen others, keen sportsmen all of them. Following in their wake are old Sir Lopes and Nute the huntsman. Let me introduce the pack to you. Those rough-haired hounds are Taffy and Gellert; the foxhounds are Troubadour, Merlin, Cunoval, Vivien, Dawnsman, Padzepaw, Sweetlips, Jollyboy, Bucca, and Dozmary. Better hounds never drew for an otter; but the terriers are the wonder of this little pack. The one running alongside Dozmary is Vixen, who never finds a drain too long or too wet. What battles she has fought underground, her scarred head testifies. Then there is Venom. She is in her usual place at Sir Bevil’s heels. A treasure she is, for she can dive and enter the submerged mouth of a drain, and many an otter has she thus dislodged from its holt.

“Well, Andrew,” said Sir Bevil, “did the otter come up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you manage to keep him up?” This with a smile, for he too had heard the midnight tooting. “I hope so, but there’s no knowin’, he’s bin heere,” said he, pointing to the tracks on the sand.

At that moment Jollyboy hits the line of the otter, throws his tongue and, jumping the fallen tree, takes to the water. The rest of the pack follows, Sir Bevil cheering them on. Swimming close to the bank, they make for the head of the lake, the valley resounding with their music as they pick up the scent left by the otter in his night’s fishing. They are a pretty sight as they skirt the wall of pale green reeds fringing the nearest creek and leave the water to enter the yielding cover. Evidently the varmint has not been there, for excepting the sing-song voices of the Welsh hounds, the pack is silent. Leaving the reed-bed they cross the furthest creek and are lost to sight under the dense rhododendron bushes. From there the few otters found at the lake have been “put down,” and the field is on the tiptoe of expectation. But expectations are seldom realised in otter-hunting. Not a sound comes from the dark green thicket except the cheery voice of Sir Bevil, for even Taffy and Gelert throw their babbling tongues no longer. Andrew’s heart sinks within him as the hounds issue from the tenantless bushes and make across the inflow towards the opposite strand. But why dwell on his disappointment, now that the united pack—for Troubadour and Jollyboy have swum over from the island and joined the others—are only a good stone’s throw from the willow? To all appearance, they might nearly as well expect to find an otter on an open beach. True, there are a few bits of hollow bank, but the eye can safely pronounce them blank at a glance, and as for the tree, it looks as solid as an oak. “Terribly slow this,” says one of the field to his neighbour; may be it is so for him; but it is an anxious moment for the listening varmint, whose forepaws, the water, disturbed by the approaching pack, is beginning to lap. He is not kept long in suspense. Dawnsman’s bell-like note proclaims the find, and the next moment the frantic pack is baying round the willow. Unable to get at the quarry, the hounds swarm round the half-submerged trunk, pawing the bark in their helplessness; but the otter does not budge. It is not fear that holds him there. He is bristling with rage and ready to do battle for his life, but only by compulsion will he leave his sanctuary. Not one of the field is up to thunder at his walls with an otter-pole; but Venom, ever at hand, dives and at last finds the entrance, more than a foot below the surface. The otter sees the head of the terrier as it fills the hole, sees it rising through the dark water. “Yap, yap,” followed by a short, sharp scuffle; and the next moment the parson, who has hurried to the spot, views the chain of bubbles which betrays the escape of the game. A loud hew-gaze—what lungs the parson must have!—sends a thrill through the field, who have already posted themselves at different points around the lake. Not an eye is turned on the hounds, now following the game, not an ear heeds their music; no, every one, even old Nute himself, who loves the hounds and has come out to see them work, is watching the rippled surface ahead to get a view of the wily varmint when he vents. As if disdaining the shelter of the banks, the otter comes up in mid-lake and floats there like a log, the water flush with his long back and his beadlike eyes gleaming in the morning light. “A grand beast,” says the doctor without taking his eyes off it. Yes, he is in the full pride of his great strength and without the help of the field; the pack, good as it is, would never tire him out. His back is towards the clamorous hounds, and surely they will seize him; but no, just as Dawnsman draws near, he dives, leaving a swirl behind him. When he comes up again he is not thirty yards from the fall. It were tedious to relate every detail of the hunt which went on for the next four hours, during which the hounds, aided by the hew-gazes of the field, never give the quarry any rest. At the end of that time the otter, somewhat exhausted by repeated dives, which have been getting shorter and shorter, lands on the island. Little respite does he get, for Padzepaw and Jollyboy, finding him there, make him take to the water again, but at the expense of frightful wounds. Then it is that Andrew gets a good view of the creature as he seeks the shallows and swims close to the sandy bottom. With his forepaws lying against his body he is propelling himself with his hind feet. His movements are too rapid for the Earthstopper to see this, and like a fleeting shadow the graceful creature is lost in the dark water. It next lands on the muddy margin of the near creek and rests on a mass of drift lying there. Old Nute is looking down at the fine beast over the reeds. The pack is nearly on him before he dives, but by swimming down the lake and doubling he succeeds in throwing off the hounds and gaining the shelter of the rhododendrons unobserved. A few minutes’ breathing-space only does he get before Merlin, Dozmary and Vivien discover his whereabouts. Smarting from their wounds, for all three of them have been gripped by the otter and taken to the bottom of the lake, they hesitate to attack the infuriated beast as he crouches there, grinning and showing his blood-stained teeth. Not so Vixen; the moment she arrives she flies at him and, the hounds closing in at the same time, a terrible conflict ensues. Badly mauled though he is, the formidable beast fights his way through his foes, gains the water and dives with Vixen fastened to him. The terrier comes up after a time, but the otter disappears as if by magic. Baffled of their quarry, the maddened hounds draw nearly every hover, except the insignificant one near the willow where the otter is resting with just his nostrils out of water. Old Sir Lopes sees him there; but he keeps the secret, though with some misgiving, to himself. Forty years ago he would have shouted himself hoarse; but somehow he cannot give the hunted beast away this morning. Knowing how it m............