Wully 



est hounds in the pack, had refused to tongue or 

 even to follow the trail when he was hunted. 



His reputation for madness sufficed to make 

 the master of the Peak hounds avoid the neigh- 

 borhood. The farmers in Monsaldale, led by 

 Jo, agreed among themselves that if it would 

 only come on a snow, they would assemble and 

 beat the whole country, and in defiance of all 

 rules of the hunt, get rid of the ' daft ' fox in 

 any way they could. But the snow did not 

 come, and the red-haired gentleman lived his 

 life. Notwithstanding his madness, he did not 

 lack method. He never came two successive 

 nights to the same farm. He never ate where 

 he killed, and he never left a track that betrayed 

 his retreat. He usually finished up his night's 

 trail on the turf, or on a public highway. 



Once I saw him. I was walking to Monsal- 

 dale from Bakewell late one night during a 

 heavy storm, and as I turned the corner of 

 Stead's sheep-fold there was a vivid flash of light- 

 ning. By its light, there was fixed on my ret- 

 ina a picture that made me start. Sitting on 

 his haunches by the roadside, twenty yards 

 away, was a very large fox gazing at me with 



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