“But not long ago, the Hunt here introduced a lot of German foxes,” he said.
“I know nothing about that; and in any case foxes are different.”
“In what way are they different?”
“They are not destructive like beavers and these other things.”
“But they are,” Frampton said. “They are very destructive. I met an old man, a day or two ago, who had had three of his twelve hens taken by a fox. He said he might get a shilling a head for them, from the Hunt, if he kept at it long enough, but that he was not going to be bullied and badgered and have his word doubted; he was going to shoot every fox he could see from that day forth.”
“Of course,” the lady said, “if a man does not keep his hens properly shut up or looked after, a fox is sure to get them.”
“It is not possible for a poor man to watch his hens as a shepherd would watch his flock,” Frampton said. “He has other things to do. Foxes are destructive beasts, kept alive here so that people can hunt them. I think that the people who hunt them and want them should either protect folk from the results, in supplying wire-netting to poor poultry-keepers, or meet claims for damage with generosity.”
“I quite agree, Mr. Mansell,” Sir Peter said, “I quite agree. I’ve been shocked to find some Hunts mean in those ways. I hope, and indeed feel sure, that the old man you mention was not anyone near here.”
“No, no; miles away,” Frampton said.
“I’ve found that some poor chaps are afraid to push their claims,” Sir Peter said. “It is sometimes hard to find out who has suffered. But, by Jove, some farmers are up to every dodge, and would ruin the Bank of England in claims. In my young days, I knew of a claim for a young giraffe.”
“Killed by the foxes?” Frampton asked.
“No, dead of a nervous strain from seeing the hounds. He was in a private zoo, and we were just outside the fences. Certainly, the hounds made the beast caper very oddly, but it looked to me more like joy than terror. Anyhow, it died soon afterwards and the owner claimed. He did not win, of course. Hunting is like every other great pleasure, it may make people who are having it a bit inconsiderate.”
Frampton warmed to the man, who was a fine fellow, generous, brave, simple and kind-hearted. Sir Peter, on his side, felt that there was much in Frampton, and that he could win him, if he could only find some piece of mental ground on which they could walk together.
“I wonder,” he said to his wife, “I wonder, my dear, if we cannot together make Mr. Mansell our friend sufficiently to change his views about Spirr. Now, Mr. Mansell is a friend to animals; he is, therefore, a friend of man, and will probably class fox-hunters as men. You will go so far as that, Mr. Mansell?”
“‘Ay, in the catalogue, ye go for men,’” Frampton quoted, but neither hearer knew what he meant.
“We have many of the infirmities of men,” Sir Peter said; “for instance, we of the Tunsters hold very much by our traditions. George the Second granted us a Hunt button; he dined with us once and praised our punch. We drink the same punch to his memory at our Dinner every year. But our great tradition is the day from Spirr Wood, when we found in Spirr in the morning and hunted the fox all day long for over twenty miles and lost him near Spirr in the evening. He went right out to Wicked Hill and then all the way back again. Five horses were killed during the hunt, two from falls and three others ridden dead. Two men, the Huntsman and John Bynd; Happy John, they called him; that’s his portrait in the grey velvet coat; were up when the hounds lost him. They had been lucky in getting remounts. We have kept up the memory of the Spirr Wood Day ever since. We have a song, which we sing at our Dinners and Balls; that, too, is old, dating from about 1789. We have also a most interesting account of the whole day. The Master, then the John Bynd I spoke of, went to the trouble of persuading everybody who was out that day to write an account of what he saw and did. More than that, he went to the very great trouble of collecting the reports of eye-witnesses from all over the line the fox took; so that it is unique; there’s nothing like it. He had it printed, with some drawings by the painter Sartorius, who does those long-legged horses, you may know the kind of thing. The book is very rare now, but I’ll show you a copy. It is very interesting, for many of those who were out could hardly write their names, but dictated what they saw. The original letters are all in my study at this moment. I’ll be happy to show them to you, if you’re at all interested. I believe I’m right in claiming that the Spirr Wood run is one of the longest recorded runs. It is our great day, and we do treasure the tradition of drawing Spirr on our opening day.