Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man by Siegfried Sassoon

Author:Siegfried Sassoon [Sassoon, Siegfried]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Classics, Genre Fiction, War, Literary, Literary Fiction
ISBN: 0143107151
Amazon: B00AEDDSZC
Publisher: Penguin Books
Published: 2013-05-28T05:00:00+00:00

The huntsman now enlivened the deflated proceedings by taking his hounds to a distant holloa on the other side of the brook. A man on a bicycle had viewed our fox returning to Basset Wood. The bicyclist (Stephen told me as we passed him in the lane where he’d been providing the flustered huntsman with exact information) was none other than the genius who reported the doings of the Hunt for the Southern Daily News. In the summer he umpired in county cricket matches, which caused me to regard him as quite a romantic personality.

While they were hunting slowly back to the big wood on a very stale line, young Lewison reappeared on my hireling. Looking more doleful than ever, he asked how I liked Cockbird. Before I had time to answer Stephen interposed with ‘He makes a distinct noise, Tony, and his wind’s bound to get worse. But my friend Sherston likes the feel of him and he’ll give you fifty.’

I concealed my surprise. Stephen had already assured me that the whistle was so slight as to be almost undetectable. He had also examined Cockbird’s legs and pronounced them perfect. Almost imperceptible, too, was the wink with which Stephen put me wise about his strategic utterance, and I met Lewison’s lack-lustre eyes with contrived indifference as I reiterated my willingness to give him fifty. Internally, however, I was in a tumult of eagerness to call Cockbird my own at any price, and when my offer had been definitely accepted nothing would induce me to get off his back. We soon arranged that Mr Whatman’s second horseman should call for the hireling at Lewison’s house on his way back to Downfield.

‘We’ll send you your saddle and bridle to-morrow,’ shouted Stephen, as Cockbird’s ex-owner disappeared along the lane outside Basset Wood. ‘Tony never thinks of anything except getting home to his tea,’ he added.

We then exchanged horses, and though the hounds did very little more that afternoon, our enthusiasm about my unexpected purchase kept our tongues busy; we marvelled more and more that anyone could be such a mug as to part with him for fifty pounds. As we rode happily home to the Rectory, Cockbird jogged smoothly along with his ears well forward. Demure and unexcited, he appeared neither to know or care about his change of ownership.

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