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.”
“The way out is down here,” he said, and passed on.
Their car was in his drive. They had driven it into the flower-beds in turning it; he took the number; he meant to learn the lady’s name. He then hurried on to Tibb’s Cross.
Nearly all the crowd had scattered now. The gate which he had chained and wired had been lifted off its hinges and left against the hedge. The chain and padlock were gone; the wire fastenings had been cut.
He walked rapidly across the field, towards the wood. An old man, whom he had not before seen, was standing in the field, staring, as men will, at the scene of some event, even long after the event has finished.
“Morning, sir,” the man said, touching his forelock. “They’m off for the wild west.”
“Yes, so it seems,” he answered.