CHRISTOPHER IN HIS SPORTING JACKET 



a yawn — off she jumps, with tremendous spangs, and 

 tail, thickened with fear and anger, perpendicular. 

 Youf — youf — jouf — go the terriers — head over heels 

 perhaps in their fury — and are not long in turning 

 her — and bringing her to bay at the hedge-root, all 

 ablaze and abristle. A she-devil incarnate! — Hark — 

 all at once now strikes up a trio — Catalani caterwaul- 

 ing the treble — Glowrer taking the bass — and Tearer 

 the tenor — a cruel concert cut short by a squalling 

 throttler. Away — away along the holm — and over the 

 knowe — and into the wood — for lo! the gudewife, 

 brandishing a besom, comes flying demented without 

 her mutch, down to the murder of her tabby — her 

 son, a stout stripling, is seen skirting the potato- 

 field to intercept our flight — and, most formidable of 

 all foes, the Man of the House himself, in his shirt- 

 sleeves and flail in his hand, bolts from the barn, 

 down the croft, across the burn, and up the brae, to 

 cut us off from the Manse. The hunt's up — and 'tis a 

 capital steeple-chase. Disperse — disperse! Down the 

 hill. Jack— up the hill. Gill— dive the dell. Kit- 

 thread the wood, Pat — a hundred yards' start is a 

 great matter — a stern chase is always a long chase — 

 schoolboys are generally in prime wind — the old man 

 begins to puff, and blow, and snort, and put his paws 

 to his paunch — the son is thrown out by a double of 

 dainty Davy's — and the "sair begrutten mither" is 

 [21 ] 



