dled together in the lee of the
trees, their various elements fused in the crucible of Sir Thomas's
wrath into a compact and anxious mass. There had been an unusually large
entry of puppies that season, and Sir Thomas's temper, never at its best
on a morning of cubbing, was making exhaustive demands on his stock of
expletives. Rabbits were flying about in every direction, each with a
shrieking puppy or two in its wake. Jerry, the Whip, was galloping
_ventre a terre_ along the road in the vain endeavour to overtake a
couple in headlong flight to the farm where they had spent their happier
earlier days. At the other side of the wood the Master was blowing
himself into apoplexy in the attempt to recall half a dozen who were
away in full cry after a cur-dog, and a zealous member of the hunt
looked as if he were playing polo with another puppy that doubled and
dodged to evade the lash and the duty of getting to covert. Hither and
thither among the beech trees went that selection from the Master's
family circle, exclusive of the furtive Nora, that had on this occasion
taken the field. It was a tradition in the country that there were never
fewer than four Miss Purcells out, and that no individual Miss Purcell
had more than three days' hunting in the season. Whatever may have been
the truth of this, the companion legend that each Miss Purcell slept
with two hound puppies in her bed was plausibly upheld by the devotion
with which the latter clung to the heels of their nurses.

In the midst of these scenes of disorder an old fox rightly judging that
this was no place for him, slid out of the covert, and crossed the road
just in front of where Nora, in a blue serge skirt and a red
Tam-o'-Shanter cap, lurked on the foxy mare. Close after him came four
or five couple of old hounds, and, prominent among her elders, yelped
the puppy that had been Nora's special charge. This was not cubbing, and
no one knew it better than Nora; but the sight of Carnage among the
prophets--Carnage, whose noblest quarry hitherto had been the Mount
Purcell turkey-cock--overthrew her scruples. The foxy mare, a ponderous
creature, with a mane like a Nubian lion and a mouth like steel,
required nearly as much room to turn in as a man-of-war, and while Nora,
by vigorous use of her heel and a reliable ash plant, was getting her
head round, her sister Muriel, on a raw-boned well-bred colt--Sir
Thomas, as he said, made the best of a bad job, and utilised his
da