There’s John Grabbe, Tolland, Mrs Grant, Lord Harbringdon, the two second-horsemen, Cheyne and the Tiger, and they’ve formed themselves into a mounted semicircle in which the half-dozen or so liberated hounds are contained. Jack Perry is dismounted and standing in front of the half-door, about fifteen feet off it, the inert lash of his hunting-crop trailing on the ground in front of him like a black signature, the stock of this weapon held loosely in his right hand. He is confronted by a packed frame of clamouring dog faces at the opening. ‘Bellman,’ he calls softly, and, despite the noise, from down in the dim interior of this temporary prison, shuddering all over with excitement, the hound whose name has been called springs from his place, bounding forward and shouldering aside the younger ones up front; then, in a kind of private signal of gratitude, lightly brushing Perry’s boots with his flank as he rushes past. For a second this great muscular hound stands still, gathering himself, then he goes half down on his stern and, tossing his black muzzle, he gives out a deep prolonged howl, his welcoming comrades in the draft nudging and circling and nosing him.
