"We'll be a long time killing one this way," remarked Darby, watching the pack spread out as they checked.
"And if we do not kill, we are practically of no use." George Freyne would have been supremely happy if his face had not worried him. He knew the line of gaps coming across; he had ridden, as became a Master, in the van, and he was now wondering if blowing his whistle would be a good thing just to remind people of his position.
"The men up at the covert said they were looking for a kill, Darby."
"And we might have had one," said Darby, "if we'd tackled that cub." He looked guiltily at his companions and Barty coughed.
"Beauty has it! Listen to her now! Hurreh on, Beauty! All to Beauty!" yelled little Andy.
The child had lost his cap, his hands were bleeding. The Rat had gone exactly as he chose, but Andy had in these crowded minutes tasted nectar.
That ecstatic jump on to the high bounds bank, the crawl along the top, all but swept off by a branch, the blissful leap straight off the road over a coped wall, with everyone else going in at the gate, the bumping rush through the crowd at the beginning--all these things had gone as wine to young Andy's head.
Might the war go on for ever if it meant his having the Rat to ride on.
Violet Weston, a little ruffled, a brickish red forge showing through the powder on her cheeks, rode up close to Keefe.
"This horse makes a very curious sound when going up a hill," she said a little coldly, "and he seems to find it hard also to do so; also, he stumbled at the banks."
"You--er--rode him at a very high place," said Keefe a little nervously. "That bounds fence is full of rabbit-holes."
"Well, he is very nice to look out, but I say----" Violet Weston turned to beam at Stafford.
"I was just saying this horse makes such a funny gurgle running up hill," she said, "and I shall be disappointed if he is not really a good hunting animal. After paying sixty pounds, too, for the thing. What is that noise, Mr. Stafford?"
"Intake or out-take?" said Stafford, his eyes glued to the persevering Beauty, who was feathering on to the line, with Grandjer dashing wildly about close to her.
"Oh, intake, certain," said Mrs. Weston grimly; and she added rapidly: "What does that mean? It's a shrill noise."