Frampton looked at his watch.
“We’re late,” he said. “They’ll be off. But we’ll get glasses and see something. As a matter of fact, I want to see what they do.”
They quickened their pace; it was twenty-past eleven. Frampton went into the hall of Mullples and picked up two pairs of glasses from a table there. He led the way up the slope to the summer-house from which Margaret and he had first seen Spirr. As he walked, he heard some of the customary noises of a meet, the peculiar bark with which a hunt-servant speaks to hounds, the tuneful yelp of a hound getting, or expecting, correction, and the movements of a good many motorcars and the tinkle of bicycle-bells.
Before they reached the summer-house, the sun came out; they looked down on a transfigured scene. Plainly, the Tunsters had rallied to the opening meet; the countryside was full of people. The lanes were populous with riders and with cars trying to get past them. Riders, in scarlet or black or rat-catcher, were slowly moving along to what they thought might be good places. There were country people together at every gate and stile. Little companies of bicyclists, male and female, were coming in from Stubbington, or moving out, so as to forestall the hounds. At Tibb’s Cross, the lanes were jammed with cars, and to Frampton’s rage, there were dozens of people, riders and walkers, strolling in his field, between the Cross and the Wood.
“Look at the swine,” he said, “in my field, as bold as be damned.”
The American looked at him questioningly, not understanding why he was vexed. The next instant there came a cheer, a repeated triple cheer, from the crowd at the Cross, and then, on the second of the three cheers, as Frampton got his glass focussed on the scene, the huntsman of the Tunster came through the gate which Frampton had locked and wired only the day before. The gate was wide open; the huntsman rode through it, with a trailing thong. Frampton could see the jerk on his lips as he said: “Hounds, gemmen, hounds.” That was the thing they were cheering, the rape of the gate. At the hunter’s heels came the famous pack of the Tunsters, all alive and alert and wild for the quarry.
“My Golly,” Frampton said, “they’ve broken my gate and are going to draw Spirr. My crumpet, but I’ll stop them.”
He was white and wild with rage. “Come on down,” he said.
He saw some rooks and two magpies come out of Spirr and go away. He saw, at once, that he could not possibly reach the covert in time. The lane just below was blocked with cars and people; three hundred people: he could not get through that press in time. He called again to the young man to come on down. He had some vague notion of braining Annual-Tilter, if he were there, with his binoculars. They had not gone three strides before the huntsman tooted with his horn. In an instant, the pack gave tongue, the whole pack was in cry. They were going off straight at the Spirr Wood fence. Nearly three-quarters of a ton of expensive dog went over the fence into the wood with a crash which Frampton plainly heard, with their huntsman beside them. All the crowd at the Cross cheered and cheered again; then instantly the riders at the Cross and in the fields were in motion, hats were being jammed down and cigars flung away, and the trembling horses put to it. There was a surge northwards from all the company. All Spirr rang with the excitement of the pack, the toots of the horn, and the View Halloos from the farther fence.
“Gee, that’s a great sight,” the young man said.
Indeed, it was a great sight; it was one of the most beautiful of sights. The leaves were off, you could see the trees; the autumn ploughing had turned up pale, dark and red earth; the roots were bright green against these; there was stubble on one field and bracken on the hill; there were scarlet berries in the hedge; a crab-tree was covered with yellow apples. Amid all that beauty, the Hunt was in full cry. Wherever Frampton turned his glasses, he saw people desecrating his estate, riding, smashing, trespassing. All the jam in the lane was trying to move; the bicyclists were already streaming off, and riders trying to pass. A car, which had been heading in the wrong direction, had tried to turn, and was now jamming the way just below them. He could see two labouring men, at the direction of a horseman in scarlet, trying to break a gap in his fence, so that the riders might get past the jam. The fence was too strong for them, but Frampton saw the effort made.
“The swine, the swine,” he said. “Right through my Wood, as though I’d asked them.”
“Gee,” the young American said, “I guess a hunting dog doesn’t give a damn for conscience.”
Indeed, they gave that impression, for they were out of the wood now, and away on the far side, going with heads up and sterns straight away for Wicked Hill, like the fox in the song.
“Gee,” the American said, “say, how can I see some more of them?”
“Nip into your car,” Frampton said; “go straight down that lane there, to Tibb’s Cross; take the first turn to the right; there are fewer cars on that lane than up here. You’ll catch them in ten minutes, or less; they can’t keep that pace, whichever way they’re heading.”
“Gee, I guess, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll do that,” the young man said. Looking at his host, he said: “Say, you look sore about something.”
“Sore?” Frampton said. “I told these swine I meant Spirr for a bird sanctuary, and they were to keep their foul pack out of it. And there, you saw them go slap through it.”
“I sure did,” he answered. “You can’t blame them; they smelled a fox and just went for him.”
“Hounds aren’t anarchists,” Frampton said. “They obey the word of command. This little game was planned.”
All this time, they were trotting down to the garage, where the American’s car was shining in the yard.
“Say,” the young man said, “you look real sore.”
“Would you like your sanctuary run through like that, after you’d asked for it to be let alone?”
“I guess I’d always like to see Englishmen enjoying themselves,” the young man said. “In my country, we sometimes think they can’t. Gee, it’s a great sight. And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll run after them, and come back for my things later. You sure you won’t come along and see them with me?”
“I will not,” Frampton said.
The lad said: “So long, then,” slammed his car-door and stepped upon the gas; he shot through the gates and away.
Some sightseers were now scrambling up the grass to the summer-house where he had just been standing. They were determined to have a better view of the vanishing hunt.
“Hi, you,” Frampton called, “get out of that. Get out of that.”
They turned to look at him, but continued their progress to the summer-house. Frampton left them for the instant. He wanted to see what harm had been done to Spirr. He set off thither on a run. In the lower part of his garden, he came suddenly on two ladies resting themselves on a bench beside his fishpool. One of them seemed scared, the other quite unabashed at his presence; they did not rise or apologise.
“Are you waiting for Mrs. Haulover?” he asked.
The hard one looked at him as at some curious wild beast and resumed her conversation.
“If you’re waiting for Mrs. Haulover,” he went on, “you’d be a lot more comfortable in the house.”
He noticed a curious scent, and thought: “You two have been necking liqueurs.”
The hard one produced and lit a cigarette.
“Are you Mr. Mansell?” she asked. “May we have a look around?”
“You seem to be having one,” he said.
“Really?” she answered. “Well, perhaps you’re right.”
The scent wafted into Frampton’s nostrils. “Anise,” he commented to himself. “You’re drunk.” He loathed drunken women. “Still,” he thought, “no-one will ravish this bird, drunk or sober.”