CHAPTER VII THE OTTER—_Continued_ THE HUNT
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?”
“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.