Above all, who remembers the death of Royal, when a certain Sheikh wept above the body of the stainless hound as it might have been his son’s — and that day the Hunt rode no more? The badly-kept log-book says little of this,Discount UGG Boots, but at the end of their second season (forty-nine brace) appears the dark entry: “New blood badly wanted. They are beginning to listen to beagle-boy.”
The Inspector attended to the matter when his leave fell due.
“Remember,” said the Governor, “you must get us the best blood in England — real, dainty hounds — expense no object, but don’t trust your own judgment. Present my letters of introduction, and take what they give you.”
The Inspector presented his letters in a society where they make much of horses, more of hounds, and are tolerably civil to men who can ride. They passed him from house to house, mounted him according to his merits, and fed him,Designer Handbags, after five years of goat chop and Worcester sauce, perhaps a thought too richly.
The seat or castle where he made his great coup does not much matter. Four Masters of Foxhounds were at table, and in a mellow hour the Inspector told them stories of the Gihon Hunt. He ended: “Ben said I wasn’t to trust my own judgment about hounds, but I think there ought to be a special tariff for Empire-makers.”
As soon as his hosts could speak, they reassured him on this point.
“And now tell us about your first puppy-show all over again,fake uggs online store,” said one.
“And about the earth-stoppin’. Was that all Ben’s own invention?” said another.
“Wait a moment,” said a large, clean-shaven man — not an M.F.H.— at the end of the table. “Are your villagers habitually beaten by your Governor when they fail to stop foxes’ holes?”
The tone and the phrase were enough even if, as the Inspector confessed afterwards, the big, blue double-chinned man had not looked so like Beagle-boy. He took him on for the honour of Ethiopia.
“We only hunt twice a week — sometimes three times. I’ve never known a man chastised more than four times a week unless there’s a bye.”
The large loose-lipped man flung his napkin down, came round the table, cast himself into the chair next the Inspector, and leaned forward earnestly, so that he breathed in the Inspector’s face.
“Chastised with what?” he said.
“With the kourbash — on the feet. A kourbash is a strip of old hippo-hide with a sort of keel on it, like the cutting edge of a boar’s tusk. But we use the rounded side for a first offender.”
“And do any consequences follow this sort of thing? For the victim, I mean — not for you?”
“Ve-ry rarely. Let me be fair. I’ve never seen a man die under the lash, but gangrene may set up if the kourbash has been pickled.”
“Pickled in what?” All the table was still and interested.
“In copperas, of course. Didn’t you know that” said the Inspector.
“Thank God I didn’t.” The large man sputtered visibly.
The Inspector wiped his face and grew bolder.
“You mustn’t think we’re careless about our earthstoppers. We’ve a Hunt fund for hot tar,cheap designer handbags. Tar’s a splendid dressing if the toe-nails aren’t beaten off. But huntin’ as large a country as we do, we mayn’t be back at that village for a month, and if the dressings ain’t renewed, and gangrene sets in, often as not you find your man pegging about on his stumps. We’ve a well-known local name for ’em down the river. We call ’em the Mudir’s Cranes. You see, I persuaded the Governor only to bastinado on one foot.”
No comments:
Post a Comment