First she described a small circle, then she sprung into the middle of it and squatted. Next she jumped up and bounded out in a different direction to the one by which she had entered. She then ran about twenty yards up a furrow, retracing her steps backwards, and giving a roll near where she started from. Then she took three bounding springs to the left, which landed her on the hard headland, and creeping along the side of the wall she finally popped through the water-hole, and squeezed into an incredibly small space between the kerbstone and the gate-post. There she lay with her head to the air, panting and heaving, and listening for her dread pursuers coming. O what agony was hers!
Presently the gallant band came howling and towling over the hill, in all the gay delirium of a hunt without leaps—the Major with difficulty restraining their ardour as he pointed out the brilliance of the performance to Billy—“Most splendid running! most capital hunting! most superb pack!” with a sly “_pish_” and “_shaw_” at foxhounds in general, and Sir Mosey’s in particular. The Major hadn’t got over the Bo-peep business, and never would.
The pack now reached the scene of Puss’s frolics, and the music very soon descended from a towering tenour to an insignificant whimper, which at length died out altogether. Soloman and Bulldog were again fixtures, Solomon as usual with his hand up beckoning silence. He knew how weak the scent must be, and how important it was to keep quiet at such a critical period; and let the hounds hit her off if they could.
Puss had certainly given them a Gordian knot to unravel, and not all the hallooing and encouragement in the world could drive them much beyond the magic circle she had described. Whenever the hunt seemed likely to be re-established, it invariably resulted in a return to the place from whence they started. They couldn’t get forward with it at all, and poked about, and tested the same ground over and over again.
“Very rum,” observed Caleb Rennison, looking first at his three-year-old, then at his watch, thinking that it was about pudding-time.
“She’s surely a witch,” said Mr. Wotherspoon, taking a prolonged pinch of snuff.
“‘We’ll roast her for one at all events,” laughed Mr. Trail, the auctioneer, still hoping to get her.