The Plague Dogs

Wednesday the 27th October to Thursday the 28th October

The tod had said never a word all day, even during the afternoon, when Rowf, surly at the anxiety of the other two and obstinately determined to eat the last of his kill, had gone down to the tarn in broad daylight, gnawed the remains in the open for half an hour and as darkness began to fall brought back the jawbone to chew and worry in the cave. At last it crept silently over the shale and picked up a fragment, remarking only, “Give us a bite noo, kidder. There’ll be ne bait for us i’ th’ Dark, ye knaw.”

“What in thunder d’you mean?” snarled Rowf, the reek of the tod seeming to tingle through his very entrails.

“Oh, let him have it, Rowf!” said Snitter quickly. “You know, that reminds me, I once saw a cat steal a whole fish and carry it up a tree. Oh, it grinned like a letter-box; it thought it was quite safe up there!”

“Well, wasn’t it?” asked Rowf, curious in spite of himself.

“Hoo, hoo, hoo!” Snitter danced on the stones at his own recollection. “My master turned the garden hose on it. But even then the fish came down much faster than the cat.” He became suddenly grave. “Rowf—the farmers, the whitecoats. Tod’s right—we can’t afford to be found. If they once discover we’re here, they’ll come and hose us out with our own blood.”

“Eh, th’ Dark’ll pull ye doon soon eneuf,” cried the tod suddenly, as though Snitter’s words had driven it beyond further endurance, “an’ weary ye’ll be an’ aall, but Ah’m not hangin’ aboot. Ah’m away. Yon yow ye felled ootside’ll be yer last, ne doot aboot yon.”

All in a moment it had crept to the further side of the tunnel and, having thus put the breadth of the place between Rowf and itself, trotted quickly along the wall and out into the darkness.

Snitter ran after it, yapping, “Tod! Tod! Wait!” but when he reached the mouth of the cave there was nothing to be seen in the twilight. Only the rising wind, gathering itself high up in Calf Cove, moaned down the funnel of the valley and tugged at the bog myrtle and tufts of grass in the dreary, empty moss. There was a singing in his head, rapid and shrill, like a wren in a bush. Looking up at the last light in the pale sky, he perceived that the wind—and this, he now recalled, he had, indeed, always known—was in reality a gaunt giant, thin-faced, thin-lipped and tall, carrying a long knife and wearing a belt from which were dangling the bodies of dying animals—a cat whose protruding entrails dripped blood, a blinded monkey groping in the air with its paws, a guinea-pig lacking ears and limbs, its stumps tar-smeared; two rats grotesquely swollen, their stomachs about to burst. Striding over the moss, the giant returned Snitter’s frightened gaze piercingly, without recognition. Snitter knew that he had become an object upon which the giant’s thought was playing like the beam of a torch, the subject of the song—if song it were—now rising and falling either through his own split head, or perhaps—might it rather be?—through the solitude of this waste valley between the hills. Silently the giant threw his song like a stick across the bog; and obediently Snitter retrieved and brought it back to him, carried in his own mouth.

Snitter whined and pressed himself to the ground at the wind’s feet. The wind, taking the song from him, nodded unsmilingly and strode away down the length of the tarn, the jumbled, struggling bodies swinging at its back. Snitter understood that the seizure had passed; until next time he was free—to lie in the darkness and wonder what would become of Rowf and himself without the tod.

“What are you doing?” asked Rowf, looming blackly out of the scrub. His anger had gone and he lay down beside Snitter uneasy and subdued.

“Dancing like a piece of ice,” said Snitter, “and singing like a bone. The mice do—it makes the sky blue. Where there were three there’s only two.”

“You look crazier than ever,” said Rowf, “with that great hole in your head. I’m sorry, Snitter. Let’s not quarrel—we can’t afford to, you and I. Come in and go to sleep.”

Once more Snitter woke to the smell of the tod and the sound of Rowf moving in the dark. Listening, uncertain what might have happened, he realized that it was now Rowf who was making towards the opening of the cave, while the tod was standing in his way. Just as he was about to ask what they were doing, Rowf said, “I can kill you. Get out of the way.”

“Noo, take it easy, lad. Divven’t be se huffy,” replied the tod.

“Rowf,” said Snitter, “where are you going?”

“Poor sowl, he’s gone loose i’ th’ heed,” answered the tod, in its sharp, fawning voice, “blatherin’ like a bubbly-jock. Here’s me comin’ back te tell ye te lowp off sharp. Th’ farmer’s oot o’ th’ rampage—dergs an’ gun; an’ noo yer pal says he’s off to gi’ hissel’ back to yon whitecoat fellers. Wad ye credit it?”

“Rowf, what does he mean?”

“I’m going to find the whitecoats and give myself up. Don’t try to stop me, Snitter.”

“It’s you that’s crazy, Rowf, not me. Whatever for?”

“Because I’ve come to see that all I’ve done is to run away from my duty, that’s why. Dogs were meant to serve men—d’you think I don’t know? I knew all the time, but I was too much of a coward to admit it. I should never have listened to you, Snitter. If they need me to drown for them—”

“Of course dogs were meant for men, Rowf, but not for that—not for the tank and the whitecoats.”

“Who are we to judge—how do we know? I’m a good dog. I’m not the brute they all thought I was. The men know best—”

“Yes, masters, Rowf, but not whitecoats. They don’t care what sort of dog you are.”

“Yer nay a derg noo, yer a sheep-killer,” whispered the tod. “They’ll blow yer arse oot, hinny. Howway let’s be off, or ye’ll both be deed an’ done inside haaf an hoor, ne bother.”

“What end can there be to this?” said Rowf to Snitter. “To run about loose until they find us—how long?”

“You said we’d become wild animals. That’s what they do—live till they die.”

“Why ay. Run on till th’ Dark comes doon. Are we goin’ noo or div Ah go mesel’? Ah warr’nd ye’d best be sharp.”

Suddenly Rowf, with a heavy, plunging rush, blundered past the tod and out through the cave-mouth. They could hear him howling as he leapt over the further edge of the grassy platform outside and down to the marsh. Snitter turned quickly to the tod.

“I’m going after him. Are you coming?” In the faint glimmer of light down the shaft he caught the tod’s eye, wary and inscrutable, but it made no move. Snitter ran out alone.

Tarn Head beck is wide in places and Rowf, in his unthinking flight, had reached the nearer bank by the edge of a pool in which the dark water, reflecting the moonlight, gave no sign of its depth. He checked and turned downstream. Snitter caught up with him in the act of springing down to a bed of stones on the further side.

“Rowf—”

Rowf jumped across and at once struck out southwards. Snitter, following, set off once more in pursuit, from time to time drawing breath to yelp. Rowf took no notice but held on his way, up and across the western slope of Dow Crag fell. Snitter saw him halt and pause, looking about him as though intending to go down to the reservoir road, which showed clear and white in the moonlight nine hundred feet below. Making a great effort, he ran on as fast as he could and once more came up with Rowf before he realized that he was there.

“Rowf, listen—”

Rowf turned sharply away without answering. At that moment the fern parted and the tod put out its head and shoulders, breath steaming in the cold air, tongue thrusting between small, sharp teeth. Rowf started and pulled up.

“How did you get here?”

“Roondaboot.”

“I said I could kill you.”

“Killin’? Ye daft boogger, it’s ye that varnigh got killed. There’s none luckier than ye. Ye saved yersel’ an’ me an’ yon bit fella an’ aall.”

“What do you mean?” asked Snitter quickly.

“Lukka doon there by yon gate,” said the tod, itself neither moving nor turning its head.

Snitter looked down towards the high gate in the dry stone wall through which the reservoir road passed in descending to the lower fields and Long House Farm.

“Noo lukka bit back there.”

“What d’you mean? I don’t—” All of a sudden Snitter caught his breath and jumped quickly into the bracken. About a quarter of a mile above the gate, where the trod leading up from Tongue ‘Us joins the reservoir road, a man, carrying a gun, was making towards the tarn. At his heels followed two black-and-white dogs.

“Yon’s yer farmer, hinny,” whispered the tod to Rowf. “What ye bidin’ for, then? He’ll shoot ye sharp eneuf if ye fancy it.”

Rowf, motionless and in full view on the open hillside, stood watching as the man and his dogs, half a mile away, tramped steadily up the road towards the dam.

“There aren’t any men you can go back to, Rowf,” said Snitter at length. “The tod’s right—they’d only kill us now. We’re wild animals.”

“By, mind, lucky ye moved se sharp. Ye just got oot in time.”

“Do you think the man knows we were living in the cave?” asked Snitter.

“Mebbies. Ne tellin’ what th’ booggers knaws—but Ah’m keepin’ aheed o’ them. Ah saw him lowpin’ up from doon belaa, so Ah comes back to tell ye. Yon fyeul” (it looked quickly at Rowf) “wez yammerin’ on a gey lot o’ daft taalk afore ye come oot o’ yer bit sleep. Mebbies noo he’ll do it ne mair.” It turned to Rowf. “Ye best stick te killin’ yows wi’ me, hinny. Thoo’s a grand chep for yon, an’ Ah’ll bide wi’ ye an’ aall. But howway wivvus noo, an’ us hangin’ aboot here, plain as yon moon i’ th’ sky!”

Rowf followed the tod in a mazed silence, like a creature barely recovered from a trance. Snitter, for his part, was plunged in that strange state of mind which from time to time visits all creatures (but perhaps more frequently in childhood or puppyhood) when our immediate suroundings take on the aspect of a distant fantasy, we wonder who we are, the very sounds about us seem unreal and for a time, until the fit passes, it appears strange and arbitrary to find ourselves in this physical body, in this particular place, under this singular sky. The black peat, the heather, the crags, the glittering droplets, each a minute moon, bending the grasses through which Rowf was shouldering his way—these seemed, as he followed the tod, to be unfamiliar things he had never hitherto smelt—things which might even, perhaps, dissolve and vanish in an instant. Mournful they seemed, scentless; and the white moonlight, draining from them the colours of the day, made of them a residue, an empty world, where nothing could be certain and upon whose smells and other properties no more reliance could be placed than upon the figments of his own castaway, wounded brain.

It was during this night that Snitter came to be possessed even more deeply by the delusion that the world where they now wandered—or at least the light in which it appeared to him—was both a product and the equivalent of his own mutilated mind.

He was recalled to some sort of reality by stumbling over a piece of sharp-edged slate. Piles of dark slate were lying all about them and beneath his pads he could feel the tilting, sliding and pricking of the flat splinters.

“Where are we?”

“Walna Scar,” replied the tod briefly.

“Is this the Scar?” asked Snitter, thinking how odd it would be to find himself walking across his own head.

“Why nair—th’ Scar’s up ahight, on th’ top there. These ower here’s slate quarries—but they’ve been idle mony a year noo. Ne men come nigh, ‘cept only th’ time o’ th’ shepherds’ meet.”

“Where are we going?” asked Rowf, looking up, as they left the slate quarries and came out once more upon the open hillside, at the steep bluff of Torver High Common above them.

The tod dropped its head quickly, snapped up a great stag-beetle under a clump of heather, and padded on, spitting out the fragments of the carapace.

“There’s mair than one place, ye knaw.”

“Well?”

“Nearby an’ a canny bit scramble.”

“Oh, he knows where he’s going all right,” said Snitter, anxious as always for the precarious relationship between Rowf and the tod. “He won’t tell you where—he’s too sharp for that—but if you go on asking he’ll only think you don’t trust him.”

“I trust him just as long as he goes on feeling I can fill his belly,” said Rowf. “But if I broke my leg in a chicken-run—”

“We’re wild animals,” answered Snitter. “What could he do for you then—die with you? You tell him what sense there’d be in that.”

For some time they had been trotting up a long, gradual slope, crossing one narrow rill after another and here and there startling a sheep under a crag. Suddenly, without another word, the tod lay down on a patch of smooth grass so unobtrusively that the two dogs had already gone a dozen yards before becoming aware that it was no longer with them. When they turned back it was watching Rowf expressionlessly, head on front paws and eyes unblinking.

“Yer doin’ canny, hinny.” There was a hint of derision, barely masked. “Ah warr’nd ye’ll be hunger’d b’ now?”

Snitter realized that the tod was covertly manipulating Rowf. If Rowf admitted that he was hungry, as he must be, the tod would then be able to seem to accede to a wish expressed by Rowf that they should stop, hunt and kill. Rowf would apparently have initiated the idea, and if anything went wrong with it the blame would lie with him and not with the tod. He forestalled Rowf’s reply.

“We’re not particularly hungry,” he answered. “If you are, why don’t you say so?”

“Mind, yon’s bonny yows. D’ye see th’ mark o’ them?”

You can’t win, thought Snitter wearily. Anyway, why bother? Let’s get on with it.

“What mark?”

“Sheep mark—shepherd’s mark, hinny. Yon’s hoo they tell th’ yin from t’other. Did ye not knaw? Yon mark’s nowt like t’other shepherd’s yonder doon be Blake Rigg. D’ye twig on?”

“He means we can kill more safely here because we haven’t killed here before,” said Snitter. “I don’t know why he can’t say so and be done with it.”

“By, yer a grrand bit feller,” said the tod. “So Ah’ll tell ye what Ah’ll do. Ah’ll just go halfers wi’ ye ower th’ fellin’ of yonder yow.”

The kill took them over half an hour, the chosen Herdwick proving strong, cunning and finally courageous. When they had run it to a standstill it turned at bay under a crag, and the end proved a bitter business of flying hooves and snapping teeth. Snitter, first kicked in the shoulder and then painfully crushed when the sheep rolled on him, was glad enough to lie panting in the shallow bed of a nearby beck, lapping copiously and ripping at the woolly haunch which Rowf severed and brought to him. It was excellent meat, the best they had yet killed, tender, bloody and well flavoured. It restored his spirits and confidence. Later he slept; and woke to see a red, windy dawn in the sky, the tod beside him and Rowf drinking downstream.

“Where are we?” he asked, shivering and looking up at the black top outlined against the flying, eastern clouds.

“Under Caw. Yer not feelin’ femmer? Think nowt on’t. There’s not se far to go noo.”

“I’m not femmer,” answered Snitter, “unless it means mad.”

In the next mile they climbed and crossed a broad ridge, but had hardly begun to descend the other side when the tod stopped, casting one way and another over the short turf. Finally it turned to Snitter.

“This is Broon Haw. Yon’s Lickledale, doon yonder. There’s th’ shaft straight afore ye. Mind, it’s gey deep. We can bide safe there, se lang as th’ big feller doesn’t gi’ us away wi’ mair o’ his fond tricks.”

Snitter, more than ever puzzled at the vast extent of the land which the men, for some inscrutable reason, had desolated and refashioned with rocks, ling and thorn, felt no surprise to find himself once more at the mouth of a deep cavern. It was similar to that which they had left, but less imposing and lofty. Tired now, despite his chilly sleep on the fell, he followed his companions into the dry, windless depths, found a comfortable spot and soon slept again.

Friday the 29th October

“Th’ very saame,” said Robert Lindsay. “Th’ very saame way as thine, Dennis, and joost way you told it me an’ all. Joost.”

“It moost be dog,” said Dennis. “Cann’t be nowt else.”

“Oh, ay. Bound to be. Bound to be, Dennis. Noo doubt about it whatever. An’ Ah’ll tell thee, Ah’m not so sure as there weren’t two o’ th’ booggers. That were yoong sheep, real strong—a good ’un, ay—an’ it had put oop real bluidy fight, like—theer were blood all ower, an’ boanes dragged down int’ beck, strewed all about, joost like yours. Ah doan’t believe woon dog could a’ doon it.”

“Basstard things,” said Dennis. “Ah were oop Tarn neet before lasst, int’ moonlight, tha knaws, Bob, took dogs an’ gun an’ hoonted all about t’ plaace, like, an’ on to Blaake Rigg, but Ah nivver saw noothing—not a bluidy thing.” He trod out his cigarette and lit another.

“Ay, weel, they’ll have shifted, joost, Dennis. That’ll be it. They’ve coom down valley. They have that.”

“But wheer d’ y’ reckon they started out from?” persisted Dennis. “Pratt, Routledge, Boow—an’ Birkett over to Torver, Ah roong him oop—no woon’s lost dog.”

“Ay, weel, Ah joost had ideea, Dennis. An’ it is only ideea, but Ah were thinkin’. Doost tha mind old ‘Arry Tyson—him as used to do rooads for Council a year or two back?”

“He’s over’t Coniston, isn’t he? With Research Station at Lawson Park?”

“Ay, that’s right, he is. Well, he were down int’ bar at Manor Hotel i’ Broughton a few days back, and seems he were sayin’ as they’d lost two dogs out of Research Station. Cut an’ run, ay. Gerald Gray—him as keeps Manor, tha knaws—told chap int’ bank, an’ this chap were sayin’ soomthing about it this morning when Ah were in theer.”

“Did ye’ assk him about it?”

“Noo, Ah nivver did, Dennis. Ah were in reet hoorry, that’s why, an’ Ah nivver thowt about it at all until Ah were outside. But then it joost stroock me—”

“It’s not like finding th’ boogger, though, an’ killing it, is it?” said Dennis. “Ah mean, even if we assked Research Station an’ they said they’d lost dog, likely they’d not do owt to get bluidy thing off fell. They’d say it couldn’t be saame dog—all that caper—”

“Well, happen they’d have to take notice, tha knaws,” returned Robert, his blue eyes regarding Dennis intently over the knob of his stick. “Ay, they might that. That’s Goov’ment Department-controlled, old boöy, oop at Lawson Park, an’ if they had t’ admit they’d let dogs goo, like, an’ couldn’t tell wheer they’re at, we could put Member o’ Parliament on to them—”

“An’ have doozen an’ hafe more bluidy sheep go while they’re arguing!” Dennis detested Government Departments in general and the Ministry of Agriculture in particular, and the very thought of them provided a vicarious object for his anger over the slaughtered sheep.

“It’s serious matter, though, to be in possession of dog that kills sheep, Dennis. Legal offence. And if that were Goov’ment Department as doon it, that’d be real embarrassing. They’d not like it at all. Even the possibility—”

Robert, who read the papers attentively and had both an extremely wide outlook and also a natural gift for seeing things as they were likely to appear to other people, was already letting his mind run on the potential for embarrassment that the sheep-killings represented—always provided that what he had overheard in the bank proved to be true. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to him that they might very well have in their hands a really stout stick for beating people who, collectively, usually did the beating themselves as far as hill-farmers were concerned—that was to say, Government chaps and officialdom in general. Harry Tyson, whom he had known off and on for years, was neither unreliable nor foolish. It would certainly be worth finding out from him what, if anything, had really happened at the Research Station. Robert was of a circumspect and deliberate nature, and not given to seeking straight rows unless heavily provoked. It had not occurred to him that he might actually telephone the Research Station and ask them point-blank about the dogs.

Dennis, on the other hand, was a great man for direct rows, especially where his own financial interests were concerned. He was, in fact, fearless, with a long string of victories to his credit. The idea of telephoning the Research Station had already occurred to him.

Mr. Powell, having seen to the monkey isolated in the cylinder and, as instructed, chalked up on the slate its current score—thirteen days plus—was looking over the interim reports on the smoking beagles and considering the terms of a draft letter to I.C.I. The search for a safe cigarette, an enterprise of great scientific interest and potential benefit to the human race, was, he felt, entirely worthy of British scientific endeavour, and possibly also of the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome. (For example, the Emperor Nero had, for his own purposes, after compelling slaves to eat large quantities of food and then to act in various ways, e.g., lie down, walk gently about, run fast and so on, cut them open to examine the effects on their digestive organs; but the results, unfortunately, had not survived in any detail.) Of course, it was open to people to give up smoking, but this would plainly be an intolerable demand to make, as long as experiments on living and sentient animals held out a chance of something better. The experiments had, in fact, been described by I.C.I. themselves as “the ultimate safeguard” for humans—which proved that they were a much better safeguard than not smoking.

The dogs, trussed and masked, were ingeniously compelled to inhale the smoke from up to thirty cigarettes a day. (Mr. Powell had once shown his wit at a conference by remarking, “They’re lucky-more than I can afford.”) The plan was that after about three years they were to be killed for dissection and examination. At the moment, fortunately, I.C.I. were holding a firm line against the sentimental nonsense put about by Miss Brigid Brophy and the Anti-Vivisection Society. Only the other day I.C.I, had been reported as saying, “Smoking is a fact of life in present-day society. It is also acknowledged by the Government to be damaging to health. In recognition of this fact research is endeavouring to produce smoking materials that will demonstrably reduce the risk to health. The use of animals for experiments is always going to be a moral problem, but within the realms of our present knowledge it is impossible to ensure that chemicals and drugs are safe unless they are tested on animals.” This was so well expressed that it had escaped Mr. Powell (until the maddening Miss Brophy had fastened on it) that tobacco smoke could scarcely be held to lie within the definition of “chemicals and drugs.” Every care was taken, went on I.C.I., to ensure that the animals did not suffer unnecessarily and lower species, such as rats, were used whenever possible.

“That’s clever,” murmured Mr. Powell to himself, as he glanced through the papers on the file. “‘Course, rats are actually very intelligent and sensitive, only nobody likes rats. Pity we can’t import some smoking jackals or hyenas or something; we’d be all right then—no one’d mind.”

The trouble was, everything you said in this field was explosive. You could never feel sure that a letter might not, somehow or other, leak into quarters where parts of it were likely to be twisted against you. On full consideration, it might be more prudent to suggest to Dr. Boycott that they should arrange a meeting with I.C.I. to talk over results—especially as the last batch of dogs dissected had—

At this moment the telephone rang. Mr. Powell had never been able to overcome his dislike of the telephone. If there was one thing, as he put it, that really bugged him about the job at Animal Research, it was being on the end of somebody else’s line and liable to be summoned to go and see one or another of his superiors at a moment’s notice. The present probability was that Dr. Boycott wanted to talk to him about the smoking beagles before he himself was ready to do so. Trying to console himself, as was his wont, with the thought that after a lot more experiments he would be a Boycott himself, he picked up the receiver.

“Powell here.”

“Mr. Powell?” said the voice of the switchboard girl.

“Yes, Dolly. Is it an incoming call?”

“Yes, it is, Mr. Powell. I have th’ gentleman on the line.” (This was, as Mr. Powell at once understood, a covert warning to watch what he said. Everyone at Animal Research watched what he said, and never more closely than on outside lines.) “He’s assking for the Information Officer, but I have no one listed under such an appointment.” (Too right you haven’t, thought Mr. Powell.) “I didn’t know whether you’d wish to take th’ call. Th’ gentleman says he wants to talk to soomone about dogs.”

“Well, what about dogs? Who is the gentleman and where’s the call from?”

“I think he’s a local enquirer, Mr. Powell. A private person. Will you speak?”

Whoever he is, she’s evidently very anxious to pass him on, thought Mr. Powell. He pondered quickly. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t know. If he did not take the call, it would look evasive and the caller would be referred to someone else. Also, if he did not take it and it turned out to be a matter within his responsibility, it would only come back to him in the end; whereas if it were not within his responsibility, he would have found out someone else’s business without being any the worse off himself.

“All right, Dolly. I’ll be glad to help the gentleman if I can. Please put him through.”

“Thank you, Mr. Powell!” (Quite a ruddy lilt in the voice! thought Mr. Powell.) Click. “Putting you through to Mr. Powell, sir.” Click. “You’re through!” (Wish we were!)

“Good morning, sir. My name’s Powell. Can I help you?”

“Have ye lost any dogs?”

“Er—who is that speaking, please?”

“My name’s Williamson. Ah’m sheep-farmer at Seath’t, Doonnerd’l. Ah’m assking have ye lost any dogs?”

“Er—could you tell me a little more about your problem, Mr. Williamson? I mean, how you come to be asking us and so on?”

“Ay, Ah will that. Theer’s sheep been killed in Doonnerd’l, three or four o’ ‘em, an’ Ah’m not th’ only farmer as reckons it’s stray dogs. Ah’m joost assking for a straight annser to a straight question—have ye lost any dogs?”

“I’m sorry I can’t tell you the straight answer just off the cuff, Mr. Williamson, but I—”

“Well, can Ah speak to th’ chap who can? Soomone moost know how many dogs ye’ve got and whether owt’s missing.”

“Yes, that’s quite right, but he’s not here just at the moment. Mr. Williamson, may I ring you back quite soon? I assure you I will, so don’t worry.”

“Well, Ah hope it is soon. Theer’s chaps here as has to work for their living, and sheep’s money, tha knaws—”

Mr. Powell, despite his bleak misgivings, decided to try a counterattack.

“Mr. Williamson, have you or anyone actually seen these dogs?”

“If Ah had they’d not be alive now, Ah’ll tell thee. Do your dogs wear collars?”

“Yes, they do—green plastic ones with numbers on.”

“Ay, well, then you’ll joost know if there’s any missing, wayn’t ye?”

Dennis gave his own number, reiterated his hope for an early reply and rang off. Mr. Powell, with a sinking heart, went to seek audience of Dr. Boycott.

“—Assa, what a sad carry-on an’ aall, mind,” said the tod. “Rakin’ aboot aall ower th’ place, bidin’ oot o’ neets from here to yon. But mark ma words, ye must kill away from hyem, aye kill away from hyem, else it’s th’ Dark for ye, ne doot at aall. Nivver muck up yer aan byre, like ye did back yonder.” It became expansive. “Lukka me now. There’s none se sharp. Ah wez littered a lang step from here, far ahint th’ Cross Fell. Ah’ve waalked aall ower, an’ Ah’m as canny off as th’ next, fer aall th’ chasin’.”

“Ay, yer canny, ne doot,” said Snitter, rolling comfortably on the shale to scratch his back. “I’d never say you’re—er—wrang.”

“Nivver kill twice ower i’ th’ same place, and nivver kill inside o’ two mile o’ yer aan byre. An’ nivver bring nowt back wi’ ye. There’s mony a tod has gone to th’ Dark wi’ chuckin’ guts an’ feathers aboot ootside its aan byre.”

“Hitty-missy faffin’,” murmured Snitter lazily. “I say, tod, I’m getting rather good, don’t you think?”

“Mebbies we’ll kill ower b’ Ash Gill beck or some sich place th’ neet,” went on the tod, ignoring Snitter’s sally. “But farmers is sharp te find bodies an’ it’s us that’s got ter be sharpest. So eftor that it’ll be Langdale—or Eskdale—ten mile’s not ower far. Aye roam te th’ kill, an’ ye’ll see hyem still.”

“I’m game,” said Rowf. “I’ll go as far as you like, as long as we do kill.”

“If ony boogger says Ah’s not clivver, whey Ah’s still here an’ that’s eneuf to prove it.”

“You can join the club,” said Snitter. “The Old Survivors—very exclusive—only three members, counting you. And one of them’s mad.”

“That was Kiff’s joke—he knew what it meant—I never did,” said Rowf. “What is a club?”

“It’s when dogs get together—run through the streets and piss on the walls; chase the bitches, scuffle about and pretend to fight each other—you know.”

“No,” said Rowf sorrowfully. “I’ve never done that—it sounds good.”

“D’you remember when they took Kiff away, and we all barked the place down singing his song?”

“Yes, I do. Taboo, tabye—that one?”

“That’s it—d’you remember it? Come on, then!”

There and then, in the darkness of the shaft, the two dogs lifted up their muzzles in Kiff’s song, which that gay and ribald tyke, before his death by cumulative electrocution, had left behind him in the pens of Animal Research as his gesture of defiance, none the less valid for remaining uncomprehended by Dr. Boycott, by old Tyson, or even, come to that, by I.C.I. After a little, the tod’s sharp, reedy voice could be heard in the burden.

“Good old Kiff—he was a hard case. If he were here now—”

“Wish he was,” growled Rowf.

“If he were here now, I know what he’d say. He’d ask what we meant to do in the long run.”

“Long run?” asked Rowf. “Hasn’t it been long enough for you?”

“How long do you suppose we can keep it up—running about in this empty, man-made place, killing fowls and animals and dodging guns? I mean, where’s it going to end—where’s it going to get us?”

“Where it gets the tod—”

“Why ay, hinny—let’s be happy through th’ neet—” “But they’re bound to get us in the end, Rowf. We ought to be planning some way out. And you know very well there’s only one way—we’ve got to find some men and—and—what was I saying?” Snitter scratched at his split head. “Milkman, rhododendrons, newspapers—linoleum smells nice too—and sort of tinkling, windy noises came out of a box—used to make me howl, then rush out of the garden door—cats cats quick quick wuff wuff!”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

There was a pause.

“I can’t remember,” said Snitter miserably. “Rowf, we’ve got to find some sort of men. It’s our only chance.”

“You wouldn’t let me when I wanted to, the other night.”

“Well, you weren’t going about it the right way. That would have finished us all.”

“You’re a good little chap, Snitter, and you’ve had a bad time. I’m not going to quarrel with you—but no more men for me; that’s flat. I wasn’t myself that night.”

“There was a good man, once.” Snitter was whining.

“Haddaway, ye fond fyeul! Giv ower! A gud man? Ay, an’ soft stones an’ dry watter—”

“I know there was one once, long ago,” said Rowf. “My mother told me that story in the basket—it was about all she had time to tell me, actually. But he went to the bad; and there’ll never be one again—you must know that.”

“What story, Rowf—what do you mean?”

“She said all dogs know the story. Do you mean to say I know something you don’t?”

The shale rattled as Snitter turned over.

“Do you know it, tod?”

“Nay—but Ah warr’nd it’ll be a mazer. Let’s hev yer wee tale then, hinny.”

“She said—” Rowf was pondering. “She used to say—well, there’s a great dog up in the sky—he’s all made of stars. She said you can see him; but I never know where to look, and you certainly can’t smell him; but sometimes you can hear him barking and growling, up in the clouds, so he must be there. Anyway, it seems that it was he, this dog, long ago, who had a great idea of creating all the animals and birds-all the different kinds. He must have had a lot of fun inventing them, I suppose.

“Well, anyway, when he’d invented them all—so she said—he needed somewhere to put them, so he created the earth—trees for the birds, and pavements and gardens and posts and parks for the dogs, and holes underground for rats and mice, and houses for cats; and he put the fish in the water and insects into the flowers and grass, and all the rest of it. Very neat job—in fact you’d wonder, really, wouldn’t you, how it was all managed? Still, I suppose a star dog—”

“Listen!” said Snitter, leaping nervously to his feet. “What’s that?”

“Haald yer gobs an’ bide still!”

They all three listened. Footsteps and human voices approached the mouth of the shaft across the turf outside. They stopped a moment, their owners evidently looking in, and voices boomed in the mouth of the cavern. Then they passed on, in the direction of Lickledale.

Snitter lay down again. The tod had not moved a paw. Rowf was evidently warming to his tale and no one had to ask him to go on.

“Well, the star dog needed someone to look after the place and see that all the animals and birds got their food and so on, so he decided to create a really intelligent creature who could take the job right off his back. And after a bit of reflection he created Man, and told him what he wanted him to do.

“The man—and he was a splendid specimen: well, perfect, really, because in those days he couldn’t be anything else—he considered it for a bit, and then he said, ‘Well, sir’ (he called the star dog ‘Sir,’ you know), ‘Well, sir, it’s going to be a big job and there’ll be a lot to do—a hard day’s work every day—and the only thing I’m wondering is what I stand to get out of it?’

“The star dog thought about that and in the end he said, This is how we’ll fix it. You shall have plenty of intelligence—almost as much as I have, and as well as that I’ll give you hands, with fingers and thumbs, and that’s more than I’ve got myself. And of course you shall have a mate, like all the other animals. Now, look, you can make reasonable use of the animals, and part of your job will be to control them as well. I mean, if one kind starts getting to be too many and harming or hindering the others by eating all the food or hunting them down beyond what’s reasonable, you must thin that kind out until there’s the right number again. And you can kill what animals you need—not too many—for food and clothing and so on. But I want you to remember all the time that if I’ve made you the most powerful animal it’s so that you can look after the others—help them to do the best they can for themselves, see they’re not wasted and so on. You’re in charge of the world. You must try to act with dignity, like me. Don’t go doing anything mean or senseless. And for a start,’ he said, ‘you can sit down and give names to the whole lot, so that you and I will know what we’re talking about for the future.’

“Well, the man did this naming and a nice, long job it proved to be, what with all the cows and rats and cats and blackbirds and spiders and things. Of course, most of them—like tod here—hardly had any idea that they had names—but anyway the man did. And in the end he got it done, and settled down to look after the world, as the star dog had told him to. And after a time the animals had young and the man and his mate had children and the world began to be quite full up, so that the man had to do some of the thinning out that the star dog had said would be all right.

“Now it seems that about this time the star dog had to go away on a journey—I suppose to see to some other world or something: but apparently it was a great distance and he must have been gone a long time, because while he was away some of the man’s children grew up, and with them that always takes years and years, you know. Anyway, when the star dog got back, he thought he’d go and see how the man and all the animals were getting on. He was looking forward to a visit to the earth, because he’d always felt that that was rather a good job he’d done—better than some others, I dare say.

“When he got down to the earth, he couldn’t find anyone at all for a long time. He wandered about the streets and parks and places, and at last, in a wood, he caught a glimpse of a young badger, who was hiding under the branches of a fallen tree. After a lot of trouble he persuaded him to come out and asked him what was the matter.

“ Why,’ said the badger, ‘some men came this morning and dug up our sett and smashed it all to pieces, and they pulled my father and mother out with a long pair of tongs with sharp teeth on the ends. They hurt my father badly and now they’ve put them both in a sack and taken them away—I don’t know where.’

“‘Are there too many badgers round here, then?’ asked the star dog.

“‘No, there are hardly any left,’ said the young badger. There used to be quite a lot, but the men have killed nearly all of us. That’s why I was hiding—I thought you were the men coming back.’

“The star dog moved the badgers who were left to a safe place and then he went to look for the man. After walking about for quite a long time, he heard a confused noise in the distance—shouting and barking and people running about, so he went in that direction and after a bit he came to a kind of big yard, and he found the man there and some of his grown-up children. They’d made a kind of ring at one end of the yard, out of sheets of corrugated iron, and they’d put the mother and father badger in there and were throwing stones at them to make them more fierce and trying to make some dogs attack them. The dogs weren’t very keen, because, although the male badger had a broken paw and was badly wounded in the face, he was fighting like the devil and his mate was just as brave as he was. But the dogs had been kept very hungry on purpose and anyway they supposed the men must know best, especially as there were about twelve dogs to two badgers.

“The star dog put a stop to what was going on and sent the two badgers off to be looked after by their family until they were better, and then he told the man that it had come to his nose that things weren’t as they should be and asked him what he thought he was doing.

“‘Oh,’ says the man, ‘you said I was to keep the numbers of the animals down and some of them had to be killed if necessary. You said we could make use of the animals, so we were just having a bit of sport. After all, animals are given us for our amusement, aren’t they?’

“The star dog felt angry, but he thought that perhaps he ought to have made clearer to the man in the first place what he’d meant, so he explained again that he regarded him as responsible for seeing that the animals weren’t killed without good reason, and that their lives weren’t wasted or thrown away for nothing. ‘If you’re the cleverest,’ he said, ‘that means, first of all, that you’re supposed to care for the others and consider them as creatures you’ve got to look after. Just think about that, and make sure you get it right.’

“Well, anyway, after a long time the star dog decided to come back to the earth again and this time he chose the middle of the summer, because he thought it would be nice to roll about on the grass and have a run through the parks, and the gardens of the houses, when all the leaves and flowers were out and smelling so nice. When he arrived it was a hot day and he went down to the nearest river to have a drink. But he found he could smell it from half a mile away and it was awful. When he got up close he found it was full of human shit and crammed with floating, dead fish. There was a wretched water rat making off as fast as he could along the bank and the star dog asked him what had gone wrong, but he only said he didn’t know.

“After some time the star dog came upon a crowd of men who were all shouting at each other and holding some sort of meeting, so he asked them if they knew what had happened in the river, and how all the fish had come to die in poisoned water.

“‘We’re the sewage workers,’ said one of them, ‘and we’re not going to do any more work until our demands are met. It’s a very serious business, too—do you realise we’re so short of money that we haven’t got any for gambling or smoking or getting drunk?’

“‘My fish are all dead,’ said the star dog.

“‘What the hell’s it matter about a lot of bloody fish?’ said one of the men. ‘We know our rights and we mean to have them.’

“This time the star dog told all the men he met that if he found them once more wilfully misunderstanding or taking no notice of what he’d said, he wouldn’t warn them again.”

Rowf paused.

“Noo what wez at th’ bottom o’ thet, then?” asked the tod.

“Well, of course, it did go wrong,” said Rowf morosely. “I’m not telling it very well, but he came back again. Kiff knew this story, and he said the star dog found the men sticking iron, pointed things into a wretched bull and making it rip the stomachs out of a lot of poor old broken-down horses, and they were laughing at them and pelting them with orange peel while they went limping about. But I think my mother said he found some birds in cages which the men had blinded to make them sing. They sing to assert themselves, of course, and keep other cock birds away, so as they were blind they kept singing as long as they had any strength, because they couldn’t tell whether there were any rival birds about or not. Anyway, whatever it was, the star dog said to the man, ‘Because thou hast done this thing, thou art cursed above every beast of the field. They will continue to live their lives as before, without reflection or regret, and I will speak to them in their hearts, in hearing and in scent and instinct and in the bright light of their perception of the moment. But from you I shall turn away for ever, and you will spend the rest of your days wondering what is right and looking for the truth that I shall conceal from you and infuse instead into the lion’s leap and the assurance of the rose. You are no longer fit to look after the animals. Henceforth you shall be subject to injustice, murder and death, like them; and unlike them, you shall be so full of confusion that you shall loathe even your brother’s and sister’s bodily fluids and excretions. Now get out of my sight.’

“So the man and his mate, with faltering steps and slow, took their solitary way. And ever since that day all the birds and animals have feared man and fled from him; and he exploits them and torments them, and some of them he has actually destroyed for ever from the face of the earth. He bruises us, and those of us who can bruise him. It’s a bad world for animals now. They live out of his way, as best they’re able. I believe, myself, that the star dog’s given it all up as a bad job. He must have, for what good are men to animals?”

“Yon’s a fine tale noo,” said the tod. “Ay, a reet dazzler, an’ yer a grrand hand at tellin’ it.”

“Yes,” said Snitter, “you told it well, Rowf. And you’re quite right—I have heard it before. Only you left out one very important bit, which they told me. When the man was disgraced and told to go away, he was allowed to ask all the animals whether any of them would come with him and share his fortunes and his life. There were only two who agreed to come entirely of their own accord, and they were the dog and the cat. And ever since then, those two have been jealous of each other, and each is for ever trying to make man choose which one he likes best. Every man prefers one or the other.”

“Well,” said Rowf, “if that is the moral- and I don’t believe it is—then I’ve just had my trouble for nothing. I suppose you can twist a story to mean anything you like. But all I can say again is, no more men for me—”

“If you did find a master, Rowf—I mean, just suppose you did—what would he be like? What would he do?”

“It’s a stupid idea.”

“Well, but go on—just for fun—just suppose! I mean, suppose you found yourself sort of forced to be with a man who turned out to be—well, you know, decent and good and honest—what would he be like?”

“Well, first of all, he’d have to leave me alone until I was ready—and take no notice even if I barked the place down. If he tried to force himself on me or started messing me about, I’d bite his hand off. And I’d judge him on his voice as well as his smell. He’d have to let me take my own time about smelling him—his hands and his shoes and all that. And if he was any good, he’d be able to tell when I’d begun to feel all right about him and then he’d say, ‘Hullo, Rowf, have a bone,’ or something like that; and then he’d give me a good one and let me alone to gnaw it while he went on with whatever he was doing. And then I’d lie down on the floor and—oh, what’s the use? Snitter, you’re just tricking me into making up a lot of rubbish!”

“I’m not—but it only shows you’ve got some sort of idea at the back of your mind—”

“Isn’t it time to go out and hunt yet?” interrupted Rowf. “I’m hungry.”

“Why, let’s away noo. Yer in gud fettle then? Ducks an’ gimmers’ll sharp put ye reet, Ah warr’nd.”

Monday the 1st November

“Well, Stephen, you’ll be delighted to know that your ideas were entirely the right ones.” Dr. Boycott seemed positively jovial.

“Sorry, chief, which ones were those?”

“About the dogs.”

“The smoking autopsies? Well, if we—”

“No, no, no—the dogs that got out. Seven-three-two and that other one of Fortescue’s.”

“Oh, those, chief. But as far as I remember the only idea I had was that we should say nothing at all about them.”

“Yes, and you stuck to it very sensibly. And the—”

“But—excuse me, chief—what do I say to this Mr. Williamson when we ring him back?”

“I’m coming to that. I was saying, the Director thinks yours is entirely the right line. So all you have to do now is telephone Mr. Williamson and tell him.”

“What, tell him the dogs are ours and we’re not going to do anything?”

“Good gracious, no! After all, how do we know that the dogs are ours? You don’t know, and neither do I: it’s only a guess. And from what you tell me, there may not even be any dogs at all. No one seems actually to have seen them. No, you simply tell Williamson that we have nothing to say in reply to his question.”

“But—but I mean, won’t he think that’s very suspicious?”

“He may, but he’s just as likely to be wrong as right. The sheep-killings may stop of their own accord. If they are in fact due to a dog or dogs, they may get themselves shot and turn out not to be ours. Even if they are ours, they may not be traceable to us, if Tyson’s got any sense. They may have worried their collars off by now. The Director thinks it’s unlikely that anything embarrassing could be laid at our door, and more than unlikely that any of these farmers could or would sue us. They’re much more likely to claim their insurance and let it go at that. Whereas if we stand in a white sheet, start admitting liability and try to take some sort of step towards helping in a search, we shall only attract adverse publicity and put Animal Research in the wrong when it may be nothing of the kind. Besides, if we were to incur any expenditure in that way, how would we justify it at audit?”

“But what about Tyson, chief? He may already have spilled too many beans outside for us to be able to take the line that we haven’t lost any dogs.”

“We’re not taking that line, Mr. Stephen, my good sir. We’re simply saying we’ve nothing to say. Let them take it from there. I’ve already had a word with Tyson—pointed out to him that the most he can truthfully say if he’s asked is that two pens were found empty. I stressed that it would be quite unjustified on his part to put two and two together and make five, and that the Director would be most upset to think that anything of the kind was being said. Most upset, I said. I think he got that message all right.”

“Nudge nudge wink wink say no more, eh? But is that quite fair to Williamson?”

“My dear chap, we’re under no more obligation to stand and answer Williamson’s questions than any private person would be. If he thinks evil, let him prove evil—if he can. I repeat, it’s all very unlikely to come to anything.”

“I just don’t particularly fancy ringing him back, that’s all.”

“Well, in this place we all have to do things we don’t like sometimes, don’t we? Even the animals, ha ha. Anyway, cheer up. You’ll be pleased to hear about the dogfish. The colour-plate tests on the eyeless ones show—”

“Williamson sounded hellish angry,” said Mr. Furse, the assistant editor of the Lakeland News, downing the last of his second pint. “In fact, I couldn’t really get an awful lot of sense out of him, for that reason.”

“Well, wouldn’t you be?” replied Mr. Weldyke, the editor. “What’s his damage—three sheep, did you tell me, and a chicken pen smashed in or something? Oh, nice of you to come over, Jane. Two pints as before, please.”

“Ay, but I mean he doosn’t have to take it out on me, now, dooz he?”

“Y’ shouldn’t be standing in the road, should you?” said the editor. “Anyway, what’s your notion—are you going to do a piece on it?”

“Short piece, ay, might as well. ‘Mysterious sheep losses in Dunnerd’l’—you know the sort of thing. Thanks, Jane. Cheers, Mike! But it’ll all blow over. Happen fella whose dog it is knows very well already; and he’s keeping his mouth shut. If it goes on, he’ll maybe go out himself one night by moonlight, find it and get rid of it—shoot it himself, as like as not, and no one the wiser.”

“But you said Williamson was accusing the Animal Research place at Coniston. Did you ask them about it?”

“Oh, ay—rang ‘em up. They’d nothing to say at all. ‘No comment’ Just what I’d say in their position. I can’t see much point in pushing any harder where they’re concerned, can you? I mean, God knows what they have to do to all those poor brutes up there. I know it’s in a good cause; you’ve got to have science and progress; but I mean they very probably don’t know from day to day what’s dead and what’s dying and just how many they have got. You can bet your boots the N.F.U. wouldn’t want them pushed around—they must be far too useful to farmers in general. So it follows that we don’t, doesn’t it? Ours is a farming area and our readers are farmers.”

“Ee—yes, I can see that,” replied the editor reflectively, looking out at the men striding like scissors down Market Street to get out of the rain. “So we cover it without mentioning the research station, right? N.F.U. or no N.F.U., farmers are entitled to expect this sort of thing to be covered in their local paper. If there is a dog gone feral, playing merry hell in Dunnerd’l or Lickledale or somewhere, we ought to find out as much as we can and print it, if only so that local chaps can get together and organize a hunt with guns if they think it’s worth while.”

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Nice to see you. How are you?”

Mr. Weldyke and Mr. Furse looked up to encounter the smile of a dark, very much dressed man of about forty-five, who affably waved a hand beringed with two large stones set in gold. (His other was holding a double whisky.)

“I couldn’t help hearing what you were saying,” said this gentleman ingratiatingly. “We haven’t actually met, but you’ll remember my name, business-wise—it’s Ephraim, manager of the Kendal branch of Suitable Suits. You’ve kindly printed a lot of our advertising, of course, as you’ll recall.”

“Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Ephraim,” said Mr. Weldyke, his gaze, as it returned for a few moments to his pint, encountering en passant a dove-grey waistcoat adorned with mother-of-pearl buttons and a thin, long-and-short-linked gold watch-chain. “Nice to meet you. Are you going to join us?”

He drew back a chair and as he did so his eye caught Mr. Furse’s for the briefest of moments. That eye said, “I don’t have to tell you that local newspapers never disoblige their regular advertisers.”

“Well, thanks, if I may. Only for a moment.”

“We’ve just slipped out for a jar and a snack. It’s my round—that’s whisky you’re drinking, isn’t it? Good. And can I get you a pork—” (Mr. Furse kicked him under the table.) “I mean, they have some good chicken sandwiches, or there’s hot Scotch eggs in that glass thing there, if you prefer.”

“No, no, thanks, I’ve had lunch. I’ll only stay for a quick one with you.” As Mr. Furse departed from the bay-window table to attract Jane’s attention once more, Mr. Ephraim went on, “It was just an idea that occurred to me, Mr. Weldyke, for a little stroke of business—business with benefit to the community, one hopes, and perhaps a bit of sport as well. As I said, I couldn’t help hearing what you were saying about the wild dog down Dunnerdale way and how the farmers might be wanting to organize a hunt. Now my idea is this. By the way, is it quite convenient to put this before you now? Have you time?”

“Oh, yes, certainly, Mr. Ephraim. We should be most interested to hear your idea.”

“Ah, you’re back quickly, Mr. Furse. Easy to see you’re a favoured customer, eh?”

“Oh, me and Mike here practically support th’ place. Cheers!”

“Good health! Success to journalism! Well, now, we’re anxious to expand business a bit in that western area—you know, get some fresh custom, let the locals know who we are and all that. Of course, I know hill-farmers aren’t millionaires, but even they’re spending a good deal more on clothes than they used to and we feel there’s a potential. Affluent society, you know, and all that. What I feel we’ve got to do is meet the country farmer half-way—show him we’re offering value for money and nothing up our sleeves—let him see we’re human, you know. So—tell you what I’ll do! Suppose we were to organize this dog hunt—with your help on the publicity side, of course. Just thinking aloud, we’d provide six—well, say five cartridges for every man taking part, and offer each gun, up to twenty, his choice of either two hard-wearing shirts or a pair of good, serviceable trousers. And then for the one who actually kill the dog—have to think how we’re going to be sure he’s killed the right one, of course—a ready-made two-piece suit, with a free fitting thrown in. You do the photographs—the lucky farmer shaking hands with me over the body and all that, eh? What you’re thinking, eh?”

“Well, I should think it’s worth it from your point of view, Mr. Ephraim. From ours, it’s a whale of an idea. There’s one or two details we’d have to work out, of course—”

“Of course, of course. But we’re wanting to move fast, eh? The dog might stop raiding or maybe someone else shoots it before we do—you know?” (Mr. Ephraim waved his hands expressively.) “You get something in the paper Wednesday, our Mr. Emmer goes round the farms Thursday, gets it all set up for Saturday—I’ll be out there myself, of course—”

“Fine, Mr. Ephraim, fine. Now look, can you just come back for a minute to the office? Then we can get the thing roughed out, and young Bob Castlerigg can get to work on a piece—you’ll see it before publication, of course—”

Friday the 5th November

“Where did you say we were going, tod?” Snitter shivered in the chilly evening rain and sniffed at the sheep-rank turf, where even now a few late tormentils and louseworts were in bloom. They were crossing Dunnerdale.

“Ower to Eshd’l. Bootterilket groond—ay. Noo whisht a bit! Haald on!” The tod looked one way and the other, north to the Leeds mountain hut at Dale Head and south to Hinnin House and the dark, coniferous plantation rising up the fell behind it. Other than cows, no living creature was in sight. The tod slipped across the road in front of the gate and cattle-grid and Rowf and Snitter followed him along the line of a dry stone wall which led them across the pasture and down to Duddon tumbling noisily over its stones among the ash trees. On the bank, Rowf checked.

“Water? Look, I told you—”

“Haddaway! There’s mair stones than watter. In w’ goin’ fer a duck!”

The tod slid almost daintily into the edge of the main channel, swam the few yards across and ran over white stones to the peaty bank on the farther side.

“Oh, look!” said Snitter suddenly, “a fish—a big one!”

“Ay, sea troot. It’s upstream they go aboot noo.”

Snitter, fascinated, watched the iridescent trout as it almost broke surface in a shallow place before vanishing into deeper water.

“D’you ever eat fish, tod?”

“Ay, Ah’ve had a few deed ’uns as th’ folks has thrown oot.”

“Dead? Where d’you find them?”

“Middens—dustbins. Are ye comin’?”

Rowf set his teeth, hit the water with a splash and was out on the further bank. Snitter followed.

“My head’s an umbrella, you know,” said Snitter. “It opens and shuts all right—it’s open now, actually—er—forbye there’s a rib broken. The water runs from front to back and trickles down inside the crack.”

“Mind yer a fond boogger, ye, an’ not ower strang neether, but yer ne fyeul.”

“Thanks, tod,” said Snitter. “I really appreciate that.”

They skirted the edge of the plantation along the foot of Castle How and turned westward again, leaving Black Hall to the north.

“I’m sorry,” said Snitter three quarters of a mile later, as they reached the crest of the steep slope. “I’m not built for this, you know. The dilapidation—no, the degradation—I mean the destination—oh, dear.” He sat down and looked about him in the failing light. “Wherever have we got to?”

“Hard Knott. Bootterilket’s doon bye. Yon’s Eshd’l, ye knaw.”

“What happens now?” asked Rowf.

“Hang on a bit till neet-time, then we can run doon th’ fell an’ take th’ forst yow ye fancies. By, yer a grrand provider.” The tod looked at Rowf admiringly. “Ah’ve getten a full belly runnin’ wi’ thoo.”

“Going to make us wait, are you?” said Snitter, sitting back on his haunches in a wet brush of ling. “You’d better sing us a song, tod, to pass the time. Do tods have songs?”

“Ay, we do, noo an’ agen. Ay, Ah mind our aald wife made up a bonny ’un, lang time back.”

“Your dam? Did she? What’s it called?”

The tod made no reply. Snitter recalled its confusion when he had asked its name and hastily went on, “A bonny ’un?”

“Ay, it wez a canny bit song. She wad sing it on shiny neets.”

“Well, never mind shiny neet,” said Snitter. “Can ye not remember noo? Come on, Rowf, you ask him.”

“Oh, may as well,” said Rowf. “Can you smell that yow down there? I’ll tear it, you see if I don’t.”

“Ay, it’ll be varry soon felled an’ fettled when us gets at it. Just tappy lappy doon th’ bankside an’ grab it b’ th’ slack o’ th’ neck.”

“Well, sing up, then, tod,” said Rowf. “If it’s going to be that easy, you’ve got something to sing about.”

The tod paused a while, rolling on its back and scratching on a patch of stones. Snitter waited patiently, the rain running down his nose from the trenched gash in his head. He could be no wetter. A car churned slowly up the pass and as its sidelights topped Fat Betty Stone and it started to creep away downhill in low gear, the tod began.

“Terrific!” said Rowf. “Go on!” The tod obliged.

Snitter yapped happily and after a few moments the tod launched into the final spasm.

“What became of your mother, tod?” asked Snitter.

“Hoonds,” replied the tod indifferently, and began licking one paw.

As night shut down the rain slackened, though the salty wind persisted, carrying their scent away eastward. From far out at sea, beyond Eskdale, the west yet glimmered with some streaks of day. Nothing could now be seen in the deep cleft below, but from the sharp-eared and keen-scented three the blackness concealed no movement of the Bootterilket Herdwicks among the rustling bracken below. Two yows together were moving slowly down into the bottom, while a third lagged further and further behind. At a final glance from the tod the hunting pack spread out and, with practised smoothness, began their encircling descent.

“—playin’ bluidy ‘ell,” said Robert Lindsay firmly, while carefully keeping his voice below the level of the conversation in the bar. “They are that—and theer’s not a doubt they’re dogs, ‘Arry—cann’t be nowt else. Livin’ systematically off o’ sheep.”

“Oh, ay?” Old Tyson drew on his pipe and looked down, swilling the remaining third of his pint round and round the pot.

In response to all hints and leads he had so far remained uncommunicative. Robert, with reluctance, decided that, much as he disliked asking direct questions, there was evidently going to be no alternative to taking the bull by the horns.

“Weel, ‘Arry, it were joost as bank chap i’ Broughton were sayin’ as tha’d told Gerald Gray at Manor soomthing about dogs gettin’ out o’ research place, like.”

“Oh, ay?”

“Well, it’s serious matter, ‘Arry, tha knaws, is sheep-killing, an’ a bluidy lot o’ woorry for thim as has sheep ont’ fell. It is that. Happen Gerald were wrong—”

Tyson re-lit his pipe, took a pull at his pint and again gazed reflectively into the almost empty pot. Robert, whose sympathetic imagination knew intuitively just how far to push his man, waited in silence, eyes fixed on the tiled floor. Among his many gifts was that of sitting still and saying nothing without seeming in the least put out or causing any embarrassment.

“Theer’s plenty Ah could saay gin Ah were stoock int’ box,” said Tyson at last. “Ah’m noan dodgin’ owt, Bob, tha knaws. But Director oop at Lawson says to saay nowt, an’ Ah divven’t want to lose job, tha knaws. It’s reet enoof job, is that, an’ suits me joost now.”

“Ay, it’s reet good job, ‘Arry; it is that. Ye’d not be wanting any trooble.”

There was another pause.

“Theer’s organized hunt tomorrow, tha knaws,” said Robert. “Got oop by tailor chap in Kendal, for advertisement like. Ah’ll be gooin’ along, joost for a bit o’ sport.”

“Oh, ay?” said Tyson.

Silence returned. Robert finished his light ale.

“Well, this wayn’t do, bidin’ sooppin’ ale, Ah’ll joost have to be gettin’ along now,” he said, rising briskly to his feet with a clatter of nailed boots on the tiles. “Ah’ve still a bit to do milkin’ cows, owd lad. ‘Appen if tha had lost dog out o’ yon plaace, tha’d knaw it’d not be woon to be chasin’ sheep; so no bother, like.”

He nodded and made to move towards the door, from beyond which sounded an intermittent popping and banging as the young of Coniston celebrated the debacle of Guy Fawkes. At the last moment Tyson touched his sleeve.

“Woon on ‘em were fair devil of a beeäst,” he murmured into his beer, and immediately, without putting on his glasses, began studying the evening paper upside down.

Saturday the 6th November

“It’s too much for me,” said Snitter. “Haddaway hyem, tod. And you, Rowf. I’ll have to follow you back later.”

It was perhaps an hour before first light. The night’s hunt along the steep, western slopes of Hard Knott had proved the longest and most exhausting they had yet undertaken. Without the tod’s uncanny ability to tell which way the quarry was likely to have fled, they would certainly have lost it in the dark and been obliged to begin the whole hard task once more. Rowf, kicked and battered yet again before the death, had broken up the kill ferociously, his own blood mingling with the sheep’s as he gnawed hoof, gristle, bone and sinew in his ravenous hunger. The splinters of broken bone, pricking Snitter’s belly as he lay down to sleep, recalled to him the guinea-pigs’ tiny remains in the ashes of the furnace-chamber.

Waking in the night with a vague sense of menace and danger, he had found himself so chilled, stiff and lame that he began to doubt whether he would be able to manage the return to Brown Haw with the others. He felt strange. His head was full of a far-off ringing sound that seemed to come between his hearing and the wind and he had, looking about him, a renewed sense of detachment and unreality-symptoms which he had come to know all too well. For a time he limped up and down while the others slept on, then lay down again and dreamed of an enormous, explosive crash, of disintegration and terror and of falling endlessly between the sheer walls of a putrescent cleft smelling of disinfectant and tobacco. Starting up, he felt his ear nipped between pointed teeth and found the tod beside him. “Yer weel woke up oot of that, kidder.”

“Oh—a dream! You didn’t hear—no, of course not.” Snitter struggled up. “Was I making a noise?”

“Ne kiddin’. Ye wor rollin’ aboot an’ shootin’ yer heed off. Fit te be heard a mile, hinny.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to get some feathers for my head, won’t I? It’s ringing like a white bell-car; no wonder it feels noisy.” Confused, he hopped a few yards on three legs, peed against a stunted rowan and came back. The tod lay watching him with an air of detached appraisal.

“Hoo ye goin’ on? Ye heven’t tuk bad?” Before Snitter could reply it added, “Ah’ll caall up th’ big feller noo. We’ll hev te be goin’.”

“Already?”

“Ay, time w’ wor away hyem.”

“Which way?”

“Up ower th’ top of th’ clough there.”

“I hope I can do it.”

“Ye’ll hev te tek it canny, lad. Yer far ower tired fer runnin’ aboot, so th’ sharper we’re off, th’ forther we can get afore th’ leet comes.”

The rain had ceased. Rowf, still half-asleep, dragged the sheep’s fore-leg out of the sticky welter and carried it as they set off, climbing steeply up the bed of the gill and so out on to Harter Fell’s north shoulder. It was here that Snitter began to fall behind and finally lay down. The others came back to him.

“It’s too much for me,” gasped Snitter. “I’ll have to follow you home later. I feel so strange, Rowf. My feet are cold.”

Rowf put down the fore-leg and sniffed him over. “You’re all right—it’s only in your head, you know.”

“I know that—it’s looking out of it that’s so difficult. I’m not at all sure it’s me inside, either.” Snitter kicked gingerly, testing one back leg. “Is it—is it—glass or what?” He stood up and immediately fell down again. “My leg’s over on the other side of—of the—”

Rowf sniffed again. “Your leg’s all right—”

“I know it is, but it’s over there.”

“That’s the sheep’s leg, you fool.”

“That’s not what I mean,” said Snitter miserably. “I can’t—what is it? Talk- to my leg.”

“Let’s away, an’ give ower yammerin’! If wor still on th’ fell when th’ sun’s up, wor knacked. Them farmers—if they clap their eyes on us—”

“Oh, do leave me and get on!” cried Snitter desperately. “Let me alone! I’ll be back before mid-day. No one’s going to see me—”

“See ye a haff-mile off in a mist, hinny—ye an’ yer magpie’s jacket—”

Enveloped in the mist pouring from his own head, clung to by impalpable flies, enclosed within a jolting, invisible helmet of chicken-wire, Snitter floated away, watching the tod’s mask recede and fade upstream through brown peat-water flowing insensibly, yet plain to be seen, across his flank.

When he awoke, the sun, from a clear sky, was shining warm into his head. A ladybird was clambering laboriously among the bents close against his muzzle, and he watched it without moving. Suddenly, beyond and between the grass stalks, a buzzard sailed into sight, low against the blue, and hung, wings fluttering. Snitter leapt up and the buzzard slid away.

He looked about him. The slope was empty. The others had gone. At least—He ran a few yards uphill, until he could look round the base of a nearby crag and, in the same moment that he knew himself to be alone, realised also that his faculties had returned and that he could both see clearly and use his legs. His head was still ringing, but at least he could now lift and carry it.

He must be off. The voice of the Bootterilket sheep’s blood was crying from the ground not half a mile off. He thought of the long run back to Brown Haw and of the farms to be avoided on the way. It would be tricky going in the broad, morning daylight. Should he perhaps wait until nightfall? But then, where could he lie up? Not here. He remembered the tod’s warning. This was too close to the scene of the kill. Elsewhere, then; and if he had to look for a refuge, he might as well seek it along the way home as anywhere else.

Which way might the tod have guided Rowf? Not the way they had come, that was as good as certain. Snitter, muttering “Roondaboot, roondaboot,” cast back to where he had been lying and without difficulty picked up the tod’s scent in the heather. To his surprise it led down the fell well to the north of their last night’s route across the Duddon. Scattering innumerable spiders and a drowsy bumblebee or two, he shushed his way downward through the wet bracken and all in a moment found himself out upon the Hard Knott pass road where it wound back and forth in steep hairpin bends up the hillside. He nosed quickly across the narrow, grey roughness of tar and petrol exhaust and picked up the tod’s line again on the opposite side. Down once more and so, at length, round towards Duddon and the Cockley Beck farmhouse standing among its trees on the further side of the bridge.

As he splashed his way across the river some little distance above the bridge and climbed back up the bank to the road, he was suddenly aware of a car standing on the verge near the signpost, about fifty yards away. Against it a man was leaning—a man with very clean boots, new, heather-coloured knee-breeches, a green twill coat and round, brimmed hat to match. Even at this distance the smell of his clean clothes was plain. His face was turned towards Snitter, but his eyes were obscured by some object which he was holding in front of them—something resembling two small bottles—two dark, glassy circles, fastened together. Beside him, propped against the wing of the car, stood a double-barrelled shot-gun.

The dog hunt, just as Mr. Ephraim had envisaged, had begun in good time and fine weather on Saturday morning, the various farmers assembling at the Traveller’s Rest at Ulpha and being fortified with coffee and sandwiches by the landlord, Mr. Jenner, before proceeding up the valley to make a start on Caw and the rest of the Hall Dunnerdale land. Dennis, who had been infuriated by the frustration of his telephone conversation with Mr. Powell and more than ever convinced that Animal Research were at the back of all the trouble, had told everyone to look out for a dog wearing a green plastic collar.

Mr. Ephraim himself, resplendent in new boots, sporting jacket (to use his own term) and pork-pie hat, and carrying for the occasion a borrowed twelve-bore of which his pride considerably exceeded his experience, was eloquent on the sartorial rewards to be distributed to the participants, but distinctly less knowledgeable about the way in which the hunt might best be organized. However, being a good-natured gentleman and anxious above all to stand well with customers and potential customers, he was perfectly agreeable to this part of the business being arranged by others, and watched appreciatively through his binoculars as the guns, spaced about sixty yards apart, combed the breadth of the hillside southward from Caw, reassembled, swung round westward to Brock Barrow and finally regained the valley road by Low Hall. Dennis had bagged a grouse and old Routledge, a noted wag, had first missed a snipe and then accounted for a slow-flying magpie as it cocked its tail on a branch. Otherwise they had seen nothing but sheep, meadow pipits, crows and buzzards.

Mr. Ephraim and Mr. Furse (the latter taking copious notes and accompanied by a lady photographer) received them on the road with encouragement and nips of whisky, and they were further stimulated by a fine turn-out on the part of the various ladies of the valley—Gwen Williamson and her girls, Mary Longmire from the Newfield Hotel, Sarah Lindsay, Dorothea Craven (“Oh, what fun!”), Joan Hoggarth, Phyllis and Vera Dawson who kept the shop by the bridge, and several more. There was some disappointment that no one should as yet have seen the least sign of the dog marauder, but Mr. Ephraim, undeterred, made light of it.

“Well, it’s early yet, ain’t it? Anyway, at least we’ve found out where the dog’s not, and no more dead sheep on your land either, Mr. Lindsay, eh? What you think we’d better do now, Mr. Longmire? Go up the valley and work over Mr. Williamson’s land?”

“Ay, that’ll do,” answered Jack; then, turning to Harry Braithwaite, he added, “D’ye think so, ‘Arry?”

Since Mr. Ephraim found Mr. Braithwaite (whose Lancashire was extremely broad) altogether incomprehensible without interpretation, he contented himself with beaming on everyone, shepherding them into the hired minibus and leading the way up the valley in his car, leaving the ladies to go home to late breakfasts.

The first leg of the hunt had also been observed with close interest by the tod and Rowf, from the concealment of a pile of tumbled boulders near the summit of Caw itself. It was only with difficulty that Rowf had been persuaded to leave Snitter asleep on Hard Knott, and he had at last agreed only when the tod had threatened to leave them both altogether.

“Who’s te knaw what’s gone wrang wiv him? We canna bide wiv’m till he wakes. If we divven’t shift oursels, we’ll aall be finished—him an’ aall. He can folly us back when he’s pulled hissel’ tegither. Yon’s ne fyeul, on th’ fell or off’t. Poor sowl, it’s yon dent in his head.”

They had already waited so long on Hard Knott, however—indeed, until the first streaks of dawn began to show behind the distant Wreynus Pass to the east—that the tod insisted that they must now make their way back by the highest and loneliest ground. They crossed the Duddon well above Cockley Beck, ran up Dry Gill in the first light and so on to Fairfield and the back of the Grey Friar. From here they made a straight five miles southward, passing over Goat’s Hause, down the east side of Goat’s Water and so, at length, along the eastern flank of Caw. The sun was gaining authority every minute and now, with less than a mile to go to their shaft, they lay down to rest in a patch of shade under a thorn-bush. As they did so the light wind veered round into the west and immediately the tod tensed and crouched flat.

“What’s the matter?” asked Rowf, copying him quickly.

“Haald yer gob! Them lot o’ th’ fell, kidder! If ye got ne nose, ye got lugs, ha’ ye not?”

It slunk quickly uphill for two hundred yards, Rowf following, and then inched its way forward between the rocks. They could now see plainly the line of farmers, backs toward them as they combed the fell below. There was the sound of a shot and Rowf ducked lower still.

“D’you think they’re looking for us?”

“Who else? Ne doot at aall. Sneaky sods, craalin’ aboot roond our place. They should think shame! By, what wid Ah do if Ah’d th’ power mesel’? Ah’d skite thim!”

“They’re moving off out of it now, though. Shall we go back?”

“Go back? Nay, not for two morns. Mebbies more. Are ye daft?”

“Where then?”

“A quiet spot, and a lang way backa beyont, Ah warr’nd.”

“Not without Snitter,” said Rowf emphatically. He waited for the tod to reply. After some moments it turned its head and stared at him without a word. Rowf, disturbed and excited as always by the rank, vulpine smell, stared back, watching the sun and moving shadows reveal and again cloud the irises of its eyes, flecked and peat-brown as the floors of shallow pools in the moss. At last he got to his feet.

“If as many men as that are hunting the valley for us, then Snitter’s in great danger. I’m going back for him.”

“Ye goin’ on yer aan, hinny.”

Harry Braithwaite, Jack Longmire and the rest had finally decided that probably the best course would be to tackle next the mile-long north-west slope of the Grey Friar, from Fairfield and Hell Gill Pike down towards Cockley Beck and Wreynus Bottom. This stretch—by the time they had got up there and down again—would occupy the rest of the morning until lunch time. (Lunch, with beer, was, of course, being provided by Suitable Suits and they were looking forward to it.) Then in the afternoon (“If we’ve noan shot th’ sod bi then,” as Dennis remarked) they could conclude by getting up on Levers Hause and combing out the Tongue ‘Us land on either side of Seathwaite Tarn. Mr. Furse, still indefatigably taking notes, boarded the minibus and set off with the rest for the top of Wreynus and the ascent of Wetside Edge, while Mr. Ephraim—who had no taste for climbing—disposing his binoculars and gun at the ready, remained alone at Cockley Beck.

“If you drive it down towards me, gentlemen, I shall know what to do, shan’t I? You might find it hung up to dry, eh, by the time you get down for lunch?”

“Wi’owt he’s ett it ‘isself,” remarked old Routledge, to a general laugh as the minibus moved off again.

Mr. Ephraim sat on the parapet of the bridge in the cool November sunshine. Below him the brown Duddon chattered between its rocks. A late grey wagtail, dark-backed and clear yellow beneath, bobbed and flirted its way upstream from stone to stone and a robin twittered autumnally in a half-bare mountain ash. With a thrusting heave of its buttocks, a black-faced Herdwick scrambled up from a peat-rift and trotted away through the ling, while far beyond, the cloud shadows followed one another in ripples across the great slope of Stonesty Pike. On the Cockley Beck clothes-line, two or three brightly coloured dishcloths were cracking like whips in the wind.

Mr. Ephraim noticed little and felt less of the lonely scene around him. As much as he could, he avoided being alone, for all too often the memories induced by solitude would speak with the voices of hell. He thought of his father and mother, gone without strength before the pursuer; then of his Aunt Leah, vanished more than thirty years ago into the night and fog of desolate Europe, slain by God alone knew what sword in the wilderness. His elder brother Mordecai, weeping with shame, had given evidence, for the sake of truth and justice, in the libel action brought in London during the sixties by the infamous Dr. Dering, the self-styled experimental research expert of Auschwitz. Yes, it was indeed more than thirty years, thought Mr. Ephraim, since the whirlwind had passed and violence had covered the mouth of the wicked; yet still the pestilence walked in the dark places of recollection; and no doubt for him it would always do so. He forced his thoughts towards better memories; of the Danube, rolling broad and smooth through Austria; of its cities and vineyards. When the evil began he had been only a little child. His mind, like a frightened dog, crept miserably back to the place whence he had tried to expel it. He recalled, one after another, the years during which he had grown up and had journeyed at last to this cold, northern land of idle, half-hostile gentiles who concealed their hearts and never spoke their thoughts—or not, at all events, to strangers. And here he was, breaking the sabbath among peasants in a cold wind, for the sake of recovering, insofar as anyone could, some part of that substance and standing which his family had once known, before their dispossession and—and murder.

“It’s a bad world for the helpless,” said Mr. Ephraim aloud.

He stood up, stamped his feet on the hollow bridge and strode back to the car. This wouldn’t do. He must, as so often before, snap out of it. There was as yet no sign of the farmers descending the fell. However, there was no harm in being prepared for the chance of action. Some of the men had thought it more than likely that the dog, if it were on the fell at all, would take alarm quickly, slink away well ahead of the gun line and come down into the bottom. Mr. Ephraim took his own gun out of the car, loaded and cocked it, put on the safety catch and propped it against the wing. Then he fell to scanning the hillside through his binoculars, first the Grey Friar, then the Crinkle Crags and finally Hard Knott to the west.

Suddenly he tensed, swung the glasses a second time towards the foot of Hard Knott Pass, adjusted them to give a clearer foreground focus and then remained gazing intently. A smooth-haired, black-and-white dog, not particularly large, was approaching the Duddon along the line of the tributary beck from the north-west. Through the glasses he could distinctly see round its neck a green, plastic collar.

Mr. Ephraim, trembling with involuntary excitement, bent down and slipped the safety catch of his gun. Then he returned to studying the approaching dog. Its belly was mud-stained and he could just perceive, along its muzzle, what looked like specks of dried blood. But more remarkable and arresting than all else—and at this Mr. Ephraim stared, at first incredulously and then with growing horror and pity-was a deep, hairless cleft, barely healed, pink as the inside of a rabbit’s ear and showing the white marks of stitches running clear across the skull from nape to forehead—a terrible gash, giving the dog an unreal appearance, like some macabre creature from a Kafka fantasy or a painting by Hieronymus Bosch.

Mr. Ephraim shuddered. Then, to his own surprise, he found the lenses of his binoculars blurred by tears. He brushed them away with the back of his hand and as the dog came nearer, bent down and began gently slapping his knee.

“Komm, Knabe! Komm, Knaber called Mr. Ephraim. “Armer Teufel, sie haben dich auch erwischt?”

The dog stopped on the road, looking up at him timidly. Then, as he continued to call it and to talk in a low, reassuring voice, it came slowly forward, tail down, eyes wary and body tensed to run at the least sharp noise or movement.

As soon as he saw the man, Snitter stopped uncertainly, both fascinated and repelled, like an underwater swimmer who perceives some large, strange creature, eel or ray, among the coral. He paused, on the one hand overcome by fear and the sense of danger, on the other powerfully drawn by the hope of hearing a kind voice, by the desire to be patted, to stand on his hind legs, put his front paws against human knees and feel his ears scratched. The man removed from in front of his eyes the two dark, glassy circles, bent forward encouragingly and began to call to him in a low, gentle voice.

The ringing sound which, ever since he had woken on Hard Knott, had been creeping by Snitter upon the heather, intensified. It flowed, he now knew, not from his own head but from the strange man’s; or rather, it was flowing back and forth between the strange man and himself. The ringing was a vortex, a circling funnel of sound, broad and slow at the top, but descending rapidly inwards to a dizzy, spinning hole which was at once both the pierced centre of his own brain and the barrel of a gun pointed at his muzzle. Whirling circles of time past—his own time and another’s—were contracting upon that present where the strange man stood patting his knee and calling to him.

Snitter went hesitatingly closer. And now, he perceived clearly, there was, pouring both towards and from the strange man, irresistible as a swift current, a flux—shaggy, with bloody hide—composed of terror and inflicted pain, of ruin, grief and loss. Frightened, he shrank trembling against the stone wall as the road before him filled with a river of inaudible sound—noiseless indeed, yet clear as those unreal threads of light which in summer drought appear like trickling water across short grass on the hills. Children’s voices he could hear, weeping and calling for help as they were swept away; women’s, clutching after them and crying in agony; men’s, trying to utter prayers and fragments of liturgies cut short as the flood engulfed them. Mockery, too, there was, and echoes of mean, cruel violence.

Clearly through all, as of a tree visible behind drifting mist, he continued to be aware of the actual voice of the man, calling him authoritatively yet kindly to approach. This voice, he now realized, was that of Death; but Death who must himself die—had himself died—and would therefore not be hard on a mere dog. In this place there was, in any case, no distinction between him who brought life to an end and him whose life must be ended. He himself, he now knew, was carrying death as a gift, both to bestow and to receive. He padded forward again, deliberately entering the spiral of cries and voices, and in so doing heard more loudly the ringing in his own head, now become a part of their lament. As he went slowly on in the bidden direction, the whirling spiral stretched and elongated, tapering to a point that pierced him, a sharp arrow of song: and this arrow he retrieved, carrying it obediently, as he had carried the wind’s song on the fell.

Snitter came to the car. As he had hoped, the man stooped and patted him; then, with a hand under his jaw, gently lifted his head, scratched his ears and examined his collar, speaking to him soothingly and reassuringly as he did so. Bemused, he found that he was wagging his tail and licking the lavender-soap-scented fingers. Then the man opened the rear door of the car, leaned in and patted the seat, his black glass tubes dangling forward on their strap. He made no attempt to drag or lift Snitter inside, only continuing to talk to him in a quiet voice of sympathy.

Snitter clambered awkwardly into the back of the car and sat down on the seat, his nostrils beginning to run as he drew in the forgotten smells of oil and petrol fumes, together with those of artificial leather and cleaned glass. Still enclosed in that strange trance which he had entered of his own accord upon the road, he now had no awareness of the wind and sunlight outside, of the white wing-flash of a chaffinch in the sycamore or the sound of the pouring Duddon. He might have been sitting in a roped pail, listening to echoes rising from the well-shaft below him.

Mr. Ephraim lifted his gun by the barrel, rested the butt on the ground beside the open rear door and stooped to put on the safety catch. As he did so Snitter, turning his head, caught sight in the driving mirror of the figure of a man striding down the hillside—a grey-haired man, carrying a walking-stick and wearing an old tweed overcoat and a yellow scarf. Barking loudly, he leapt for the door. Startled, Mr. Ephraim involuntarily pulled the barrel of the gun towards him. Snitter, trying to push past him, struggled wildly. One front paw clawed at his sleeve while the other became caught in the trigger guard. There was a deafening explosion and the gun fell to the ground, dragging Snitter with it. A moment later Mr. Ephraim, his face pouring blood, silently toppled and fell with his body half in and half out of the car.

When the farmer’s wife, the soap-suds still dripping from her bared forearms, came running out of the gate, Snitter, howling in tenor, was already across the bridge and two hundred yards up the windy hillside of the Hard Knott, tail between his legs and jaws frothing as though he had been loosed out of hell.

It was after this that the bad things began.