170 THE LIFE STORY OF AN OTTER 



ing anew the reaches he had passed. He tried 

 every holt he came to, but without result. 



* Do you think he's gone down ?' shouted the 

 squire to the miller across the river. 



' I don't, sir. I didn't find a trace from the 

 ford up, and, as you know, the hounds didn't 

 give a sign.' 



■ Well, there's no holding worth the name 

 between here and Longen. Where can he be ?' 



The puzzling question was answered by the 

 deep note of Dosmary from an overgrown water- 

 course that served to drain the morass. No need 

 was there for the squire to cry out, ' Hark to 

 Dosmary '; for the hounds, on hearing the sum- 

 mons they knew so well, flew to her where she 

 threaded the reed-bed before taking the steep 

 leading to the moor. Then up the all but bare 

 face the twenty couple made their way in a long 

 winding line. Close after the hindmost pressed 

 the squire, the parson and five others, all sound 

 of wind and limb, capable of holding on to the 

 end of the promontory, if need be. Not a word 

 passed until the hounds had crossed the stream 

 where it was thought the otter might have laid 

 up, and then only « Liddens, men,' and ■ Ay, sir 1' 

 from the moorman in response. Even the sight 

 of the otter's footprints in the next hollow drew 



