Rolf Boldrewood
Babes in the Bush
Nearly all the ladies who were to assist at the grand ceremonial had ridden or driven over the night before. Warbrok was nearly as fully occupied as Rockley Lodge had been at the races. It was many a day since the old walls had included so large and mirthful a party, had listened to such joyous babble, had echoed to like peals of innocent laughter.
Of course, the fair Christabel and her mother were early invited guests. They had brought a girl cousin. Mrs. Snowden had also asked leave to bring a friend staying with her at the time. Miss Fane had, of course, been entreated by Mrs. Effingham to be sure to come, but that young lady had written, sorrowfully, to decline as Dr. Fane was absent on business. A postscript, partially reassuring, stated that he was expected home the next day, and if the writer could possibly manage it she might ride part of the way to Warbrok and join some friends who were to come to the breakfast. But this was a hazardous supposition, too good to come off. Deep regret was expressed at The Chase on the receipt of this note, but the world went on nevertheless, as it does in default of all of us.
Can I essay to describe the array of dames and demoiselles, knights and squires and retainers, yeomen, men-at-arms, and others of low degree, who, on that ever-memorable autumn morn, trampled the green meadow in front of old Warbrok House? Many a day has passed since the shadows of the waving forest trees flecked the greensward, since the hillside resounded to horse-hoof and jingling bridle, while mirthful words and silvery laughter blended ever and anon with the unaccustomed bay of the foxhound.
Ah me! Of the manly forms and bold, eager brows of those who kept tryst that day, how many have gone down before the onset of battle, the arrow of pestilence, the thousand haps of a colonist’s life? The stark limbs are bowed, the bold eyes dimmed, the strong hearts tamed by the slow sorcery of Time – even of those o’er whom the forest tree sighs not, or the wild wave moans no requiem.
How many of that fair company have ridden away for ever into the Silent Land! What bright eyes have forgotten to shine! How many a joyous tone is heard no more!
The halls her bright smile lighted up of yore,
Are lonely now!
Gone to the Valhalla, doubtless, are many brave souls of heroes; but in the good year of grace eighteen hundred and thirty-six the chances of life’s battle sat but lightly on the gallant troop that reined up at the first meet at Warbrok Chase. Many a goodly muster of the magnates of the land had been held in that home of many memories ere this; but never within the ken of the oldest chronicler had anything occurred so successful, so numerously attended, of such great and general interest to the district or neighbourhood.
Resolved that all the concomitants and accessories should be as thoroughly English as could in any way be managed, Howard Effingham had personally superintended the details of a Hunt breakfast, such as erstwhile he had often enjoyed or dispensed within the bounds of Merrie England.
North and south, and east and west,
The ‘visitors’ came forth,
as though minded to give the Squire of Warbrok – a name by which Howard Effingham was commencing to be known in the neighbourhood – a substantial acknowledgment of the interest taken by the country-side in his highly commendable enterprise. The younger squatters, then, as now, the aristocracy of the land, mustered gallantly in support of the hereditary pastime of their order. A list might be attempted, were it only like the names of the ships in Homer’s Iliad, some day to be read to curious listening ears by one unknowing of aught save that such, in the dear past, were the names of heroes.
But no thought of the irony of fate fell darkly on the merry party issuing from The Chase to greet the Badajos and Benmohr contingents, as they came up from opposite directions. With Harry O’Desmond rode a tall man in a green hunting frock, whose length of limb and perfect seat showed off the points of an inestimable grey of grand size and power, whom all men saw at once to be The Caliph, well known on both sides of the Straits. It was in truth John Hampden’s famous hunter, a very Bayard among horses, at whom no horse-loving junior could look without tears in his eyes.
Of that party also were the Gambiers – Alick, Jimmy, and Jack – with their friend Willie Machell. A trio of cheerful hard-riding young squatters, having made names for themselves as leading dare-devils where anything dangerous was to be done with the aid of horse-flesh. Their ‘Romeo’ five-year-olds, with matchless shoulders, but imperfect tempers, carried them admirably. Will Machell was a tall, mild, gentlemanlike, musical personage, by no means so ‘hard’ as his more robust friends. He would be available as a chaperon for the feminine division, as he did not intend to do more than canter a mile or two after the throw-off.
Came from the broad river-flats and forest parks of the Murray, Claude Waring and his partner Rodder, the former tall, dark, jovial; the latter neat, prudent, and fresh-coloured.
Came from the volcanic cones and scoria-covered plateaus of Willaree the broad frame and leonine visage of Herman Bottrell. He was well carried by his square-built ambling cob, while beside him on a dark bay five-year-old, with the blood of Tramp in his veins, sat the well-known figure of ‘Dolly’ Goldkind, a man who in his day had shared the costliest pleasures of the haute volée of European capitals. Commercial vicissitudes in his family had forced him to importune fortune afresh in the unwonted guise of an Australian squatter. She had, in this instance, not disdained to ‘favour the brave,’ and Dolly was now in a fair way to see the pavement of the Faubourg St. Germain once yet again, and to bask amid the transient splendour of the Tuileries. He had faced gallantly his share of uncongenial solitude, unadorned Nature, and rude surroundings, always awaiting, with the philosophy born of English steadfastness, and Parisian insouciance, the good time coming.
Came Bernard Wharton, bronzed by the fierce unshadowed sun of that dread waste where clouds rarely linger or the blessed rains of heaven are known to fall. His last whoo-hoop had been heard in his own county, in the ancestral land. His blue eye was bright, and his smile ready, as though he had known naught but lightsome toil and the sport of his Northamptonshire forefathers.
Ardmillan, Forbes, and Neil Barrington, with all the ‘Benmohr mob,’ as they were familiarly called, were in the vanguard. Neil Barrington possessed one valuable attribute of the horseman, inasmuch as he was ready, like Bob Clarke, to ride anything and at anything. No man had ever seen Neil decline a mount or a fence, however unpromising. But his skill was inferior to his zeal, usually provoking comment from the bystanders.
On one of these occasions, when he had hit a top rail very hard in an amateur steeplechase, an expostulatory friend said, ‘Why don’t you lift your horse, Neil?’
‘Lift, be d – d!’ replied the indignant Neil; ‘I’ve enough to do to stick on.’
However, being muscular, active, and fearless, Neil’s star had hitherto favoured him, so that he was generally well up at the finish.
One needs a staunch horse for ‘cutting out’ work, but the great raking Desborough which Bob Clarke brought with him was surely too good to be knocked about in the Benmohr bogs and volcanic trap ‘rises’ at a muster, while his condition savoured more of the loose-box than the grass paddock. Bob was one of those fortunate individuals that every one everywhere, male and female, gentle and simple, is glad to welcome. So there was no dissentient to the view of duty he had adopted but Mr. Rockley. And though that gentleman stated it as his opinion that Master Bob would have been better at home minding his work if he ever intended to make money, he extended the right hand of fellowship to him, and was as gracious as all the world and distinctly the world’s wife (and probably daughter) was wont to be.
There were those who thought that Christabel Rockley’s eyes glowed with a deeper light after Bob’s coming was announced. But such an occasion would have brightened the girl’s flower-like face even if Bob had been doomed to eat his heart the while in solitude and disappointment on the far Mondarlo Plain.
‘None of the ladies who belonged to “our set,” and could ride at all, were absent,’ Neil Barrington remarked, ‘except Miss Fane; and it was a beastly shame she was prevented from coming – most likely by that old Turk of a father of hers. It was a real pleasure to see her ride, and now they were all done out of it.’
Just as Neil had concluded his lamentation for Vera Fane, who had won his heart by comforting him after one of his tumbles, saying that she never saw any one who rode so straight without turning out a horseman in the end, the Granville party, who had a long distance to come, made their appearance through the trees of the north gully, and there, on the well-known bonnie brown Emigrant, between Jack Granville and his sister Katie, was Vera Fane, or the evil one in her sweet guise.
So the grateful Neil was appeased, and straightway modified his language with respect to Dr. Fane’s parental shortcomings; while Wilfred Effingham, who never denied his interest in the young lady – chiefly, he avowed, as a study of character – felt more exhilarated than he could account for. The Granvilles were congratulated, first of all upon their own appearance, and assured they were not at all late (Rockley had been devoting them to the infernal deities for the last half-hour), then upon their thoughtful conduct in bringing Miss Fane.
‘Deal of trouble, of course,’ quoth Jack Granville. ‘Miss Fane is one of that sort, ain’t she? She rode over with a small black boy for an escort, and roused us up about midnight. Nearly shot her, didn’t I, Katie?’
‘I’m afraid I frightened you,’ said Miss Fane, with an apologetic expression, ‘but papa had only just come home from Sydney. I knew if I missed this eventful day I should never have such another chance, so I lifted up Wonga by his hair, poor child, to wake him, and then started off for a night ride.’
There was no time for further amenities, as the Master, triumphant and distinguished in the eyes of the Australian-born portion of the Hunt, gorgeous in buckskins, accurate top-boots, and a well-worn pink, moved off with fourteen couple of creditable foxhounds. A very fair, even-looking lot they were admitted to be. Old Tom had proved an admirable whip, displaying a keenness in the vocation which verified the tales with which he had regaled his acquaintances as to feats and frolics with the Blazers in the historic County Galway, in the kingdom of Long Ago.
A roan cob, with a reputation for unequalled feats in the jumping line, had, after many trials, been secured by Wilfred as a ‘safe conveyance’ for his father. He was, indeed, an extraordinary animal; the sort that some elderly gentlemen are always talking about and never seem able to get.
Wallaby was a red roan, low set, of great power and amazing activity. ‘He could jump anything,’ his former owner declared, ‘and was that fond of it, as you could lead him up to this ’ere three-railed fence with a halter and he’d clear it and jump back without pulling it out of your hand.’ This he proceeded to do before Wilfred and his father, after which there was no question as to his cross-country capability.
Not above 14 hands 2 inches in height, with short legs, his neat head and neck, with sloping shoulders and short back, ranked him as fit to carry a bishop or a banker in Rotten Row. His thighs and gaskins showed where the jumping came from. Besides these excellences, he was quiet, fast, and easy in his paces; so that Mrs. Effingham and the girls had no anxiety about the head of the house when so mounted.
CHAPTER XVII
THE FIRST MEET OF THE LAKE WILLIAM HUNT CLUB
‘What a delightful sight!’ said Miss Fane to Rosamond; ‘and how glad I am that I was so determined to come. I have rather a craze for horses, I know, but doesn’t it look magnificent. What an array! Everybody within a hundred miles must be here. I feel as if I could go out of my senses with excitement. This is strictly between ourselves. But of course you have seen far larger fields.’
‘I was too young before I left home for much in the hunting way,’ said Rosamond, ‘but I was taken to see a throw-off now and then on the first day of the season.’
‘What was it like? A much finer sight than this?’
‘We cannot, of course, compete in appointments – the Hunt servants so neatly got up; the huntsman such a picture, with his weather-beaten face, and the whips so smart and trim. Then the grey-haired squires on their favourite hunters give such a tone to the affair. But we have good horses out to-day, including yours and mine, which would not be unnoticed, even that dear Fergus. He wonders what it is all about.’
‘And the scenery and the belongings?’
‘Well, a lawn in front of a grand historic mansion that has been besieged more than once since the Wars of the Roses must have the pas over anything in Australia. Still, as for scenery, it was often tame, and scarcely came up to that.’
Here she pointed with her whip as the hounds spread eagerly over a grassy flat immediately beneath them. They had been for some time imperceptibly ascending a slope.
The mists which had shrouded the mountain-tops had rolled back, and a panorama of grand and striking beauty stood revealed. Westward lay the lake, a silver sheet, amid the green slopes which marked its shores. On the south rose sheer and grim the enormous darkened cone which terminated the mountain range which they had approached. The released effulgence of the morning sun magically transfigured to purple masses the outline of the curving ridge, before crowning it with a tremulous aureole. Trending westerly, the level ground increased in width, until, but for its groves of eucalyptus, it might have been dignified by the name of plain. This gradually merged into a region of park-like forest.
‘What a charming place for a gallop!’ said Christabel Rockley. ‘I do so hope the fox, or whatever he is, will be found here. I should not be afraid to ride fast over this nice, clear country.’
‘It is almost too easy,’ said Miss Fane, drawing her bridle-rein, as she watched old Tom closely. ‘I like forest and range work, I must confess. But we must look out, or the hounds will be away, and we shall be left lamenting like so many Lord Ullins.’
The girl’s instinct had not deceived her. She had ridden many a day at her father’s side, when the shy cattle of a neglected herd, ready for headlong speed at the snapping of a twig, needed quick following to live with. Keeping her eye on old Tom, she had noted the signs of an approaching start.
A leading hound ran along a cattle track, and giving tongue, went off at score. Three or four comrades of position followed suit, and in the shortest possible time the whole pack was away, running with a breast high scent.
‘The black dingo for a thousand,’ said old Tom to the Master, as he hustled Boney alongside of the roan cob. ‘I seen Hobart Gay Lass put up her bristles the minit she settled to the scent. It’s a true tongue the slut has, and I’ll back her against ’ere a dog of the English lot, though there’s good hounds among them. We’ll have the naygur to-day, if there’s vartue in a good scent and a killing pack.’
‘Then you know him, Tom?’
‘By coorse, I do; he killed Strawberry’s calf, and didn’t I go down on my two knees and swear I’d have the heart’s blood of him.’
‘Then how did you manage to lay the hounds on him here – I thought he was a lake dog?’
‘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.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Miss Fane. ‘Is the whole thing over? Was the dingo a myth?’
‘We have overrun the scent, Miss Fane,’ said Wilfred with dignity. ‘The hounds have checked, but we shall hit it off again in a few minutes.’
He had hardly finished speaking when Miss Fane, who, if it was her first day after hounds, had ‘kept her side’ well up for many a day in early girlhood, ‘when they wheeled the wild scrub cattle at the yard,’ took her horse by the head, with a rapid turn towards two couple of hounds that she had descried racing down the side of a creek. A neat jump, following old Tom over the narrow but deep water-course at a bend, placed her on easy terms with the pack. A new line of country lay spread out before them at right angles to their late course.
The hounds had now settled again to the scent. Another ‘blind’ creek, waterless, but respectable in the jumping way, lay in front. At this Miss Fane’s horse went so fast and took so extensive a fly, that Wilfred felt himself compelled to be hard on his Camerton chestnut and ride, if he intended to keep his place in the front alongside of this ‘leading lady,’ as Miss Fane’s nerve and experience entitled her to become.
But the rest of the field were not doomed to defeat and extinction, although Miss Fane’s knowledge of emergencies had enabled her to fix the moment when the scent was recovered.
Scarcely did the hounds swing to their line, for the dingo had turned, at right angles, in the creek, and so occasioned the outrunning of the scent, when Forbes, Ardmillan, Neil Barrington, and Fred Churbett were seen coming up hand over hand. Miss Effingham’s ‘dear Fergus’ was slipping along with his wonted graceful ease, and permitting the interchange of a few sentences with Mr. Churbett, who rode at her bridle-rein. Hampden, with whom was Beatrice, on Allspice, was riding wide of the hounds, but only waiting for serious business to show what manner of work he and The Caliph were wont to cut out for themselves. Bob Clarke, wonderful to relate, was not among the first flight. It could not have been the fault of Desborough – faster than any horse in the hunt – and as to jumping, why, he had a man on his back who was a sufficient answer to any reflections on that score.
‘May I niver be d – d!’ exclaimed old Tom, ‘if the varmint isn’t going straight for the paddock! One would think he was a rale fox, to see the divilment of him. Sure it must be the hounds puts them up to all the villainy. Well, the bigger the lape, the more divarshion.’
Satisfying himself with this view of the matter, old Tom watched with interest the field gradually approaching a large outer paddock, which lay at some distance from the house. It was the ordinary two-railed fence of the colonists, and though fairly stiff, not formidable to any one who intended going.
The hounds slipped quietly under the lower rail, and in another moment were racing, unchecked, along the flat which it enclosed. But with the field, this obstacle commenced to alter the state of matters.
The first flight, it is true, came rattling round a point of timber at any number of miles an hour, when they encountered this obstacle, to the sardonic entertainment of Tom Glendinning, who had eased his horse to see the effect. Wilfred and Miss Fane were still leading when the line of fence suddenly appeared. Wilfred, from his knowledge of the country, was aware that it was coming, and had prepared his companion for it.
‘It is not very high,’ she said. ‘We are going so charmingly that I could not bear to be stopped. Emigrant here’ – and she fondly patted the dark brown neck of the adamantine animal she rode – ‘is good for anything in a moderate way.’
‘It is scarcely four feet,’ said Wilfred, ‘but don’t go at it if you are not quite sure. We can go round.’
‘I’m not going round, I can promise you,’ said the girl, with a clear light glowing in her steadfast eyes. ‘Oh, here it is. Two-railed fences are not much. Besides, we are leading, and must show a good example.’
Whereupon Emigrant’s head was turned towards the nearest panel. The well-bred horses quickened their speed slightly; Emigrant shook his arched neck as both cleared the rail with little more trouble than a sheep-hurdle. As they alighted on the sound greensward, Miss Fane was sitting perfectly square with her hands down, just a little backward in her seat, but without the slightest sign of haste or discomposure.
‘Well done,’ said Wilfred. ‘Prettily jumped. Emigrant has been at it before.’
‘He has been at most things,’ said Miss Fane, looking fondly at her experienced palfrey. ‘He had all kinds of work before I managed to make private property of him; but nobody rides him but me now, and I think I shall manage to keep his old legs right for years to come.’
The next advancing pairs were not quite so secure of their horses’ abilities, and a slight uncertainty took place. It was all very well for Miss Fane to say the fence was not much; but rails are rails. When they happen to be new and unyielding, though scarcely four feet in height, a mistake causes a severe fall. There is no scrambling through an Australian fence, as a rule. It must be jumped clean or let alone.
Fergus, the unapproachable, was in good sooth no great performer over anything stiff. Peerless as a hackney in all other respects, he was not up to much across country; nor had he been required hitherto, in the houndless state of the land, to do aught in that line. Nevertheless, Rosamond, fired by the example of Miss Fane, and inspirited by the apparent ease with which Emigrant negotiated the obstacle, would have doubtless run the risk, trusting to Fergus’s gentlemanlike feeling to see her safe. But all risk of danger was obviated by Bob Clarke’s promptitude.
That chivalrous youth, knowing all about Red King, as indeed he did about every horse in the land, was aware that he was a difficult horse to ride at timber. ‘Handsome as paint,’ was the general verdict, but he needed two pairs of hands in company.
On this occasion the fact of there being other ambitious animals in front, and the ‘great club of the unsuccessful’ in his rear, had roused his temper.
The fair Christabel was by no means deficient in courage, but to-day Red King had been too much for her. He had fretted himself into foam, and her pretty hands were sore with holding the ‘reefing’ horse, whose mouth became more and more callous.
‘Don’t you ride him at that fence, Miss Christabel,’ said Bob, in a tone of entreaty. ‘He’ll go through it as sure as you’re alive. I know him.’
The girl’s face grew a shade paler, but she set her teeth, and, pointing with her whip to Miss Fane, who was sailing away in ease and luxury on the farther side, said, ‘I must; they’re all going at it.’
‘Very well,’ said he – mentally reprobating Red King’s mouth and temper, and it may be the obstinacy of young women – ‘keep behind me, and we’ll be next.’
Upon this the wily Bob shot out from the leading ranks, closely followed by the wilful Christabel, whose horse, indeed, left her no option. Sending Desborough at a hog-backed rail at the rate of forty miles an hour, with a reprehensibly loose rein, that indignant animal declined to rise, and, chesting the rail, snapped it like a reed. As Master Bob lay back in the saddle with his head nearly on his horse’s tail, he had the pleasure of seeing Christabel pop pleasantly over the second rail, followed by the other ladies, excepting Mrs. Snowden, who faced the unbroken fence with considerable resolution. As for the attendant cavaliers, they negotiated it pleasantly enough, with the exception of a baulk or two and one fall. Indeed, another rail gave way soon after, making a gap through which the rear-guard, variously mounted and attired, streamed gallantly.
As for Bob Clarke, Red King had managed to run up to Desborough – (great turn of speed that old King) – and he fancied he saw in the marvellous eyes a recognition of his unusual mode of easing a stiff leap.
The next happened to be one rare in Australia, having its origin in Mr. Effingham’s British reminiscences. A fence was needed in the track of a marshy inlet from the lake. A ditch with a sod wall thrown up on the farther side made a boundary sufficing for all the needs of an enclosure, yet requiring no carriage of material.
‘We need not make it quite so broad or deep,’ he said, ‘as the ox fences in Westmeath; but if I can get a couple of hedgers and ditchers, I shall leave my memorial here, to outlast Dick’s timber skeletons.’
Two wandering navvies, on the look-out for dam-making, were fortunately discovered. The result of their labours was ‘The Squire’s Ditch,’ as the unusual substitute was henceforth named. It certainly was a relief after the austerity of posts and rails proper. In a few places the ditch had been filled in and a partial gap made in the sod wall. At any rate horse and rider would all go at it with light hearts. So, with the exception of Wilfred and Miss Fane – the latter having picked out the worst place she could see – everybody treated themselves indulgently; hit the wall, or scrambled over the ditch, just as their horses chose to comport themselves, and rode forward rejoicing.
The hounds have now lengthened out, while their leaders are racing, with lowered sterns, at a pace that leaves the heavy brigade an increasing distance behind. The flat is broken only by an occasional sedgy interval where the fall to the lake has not been sufficient. For the same reason the creek, or natural outlet of the watershed, is, though not very wide, less unequal as to depth than are most Australian watercourses, while the perpendicular banks show how the winter rains of ages have channelled the rich black soil.
‘We have something like a water-jump here,’ said Wilfred to his companion, as they watched the hounds disappear and climb up, giving tongue as they scour forward with renewed energy. ‘It is not so very wide, but the sides are steep. If your horse does not know that sort of jump, we had better follow it down to the ford, near the lake.’
‘Black Mountain is full of small rivers and treacheries of all sorts,’ said the girl. ‘A horse that can go there can go anywhere, I think.’ Sending Emigrant at it pretty fast, he lowered his head slightly and ‘flew it like a bird.’
By the time they approached the Deep Creek, as old Tom averred it had been christened ever since he knew Warbrok, the greater part of the field seemed aware that no common obstacle was before them.
‘See here now, Mr. Churbett,’ said old Tom. ‘It’s an ugly lape unless you know where to take it, and some of the ladies might get hurted. You make for the point half a mile down, where ye see thim green reeds. There’s a little swamp fills it up there, and ye can wade through easy. More by token, I’m thinkin’, the hounds will turn to ye before ye cross the three-railed fence into the horse paddock.’
Mr. Churbett at once made sail for the point indicated, successfully piloting, with Forbes and a few men who were more chivalrous than keen, the feminine division. He was followed by the greater portion of the rear-guard, who, seeing that there was an obstacle to free discussion in front, wisely turned when they did. Hamilton, Argyll, and Hampden rode at the yawner with varied success.
