The Bag

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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"The Major is coming in to tea," said Mrs. Hoopington to her niece."He's just gone round to the stables with his horse. Be as brightand lively as you can; the poor man's got a fit of the glooms."Major Pallaby was a victim of circumstances, over which he had nocontrol, and of his temper, over which he had very little. He hadtaken on the Mastership of the Pexdale Hounds in succession to ahighly popular man who had fallen foul of his committee, and theMajor found himself confronted with the overt hostility of at leasthalf the hunt, while his lack of tact and amiability had done muchto alienate the remainder. Hence subscriptions were beginning tofall off, foxes grew provokingly scarcer, and wire obtruded itselfwith increasing frequency. The Major could plead reasonable excusefor his fit of the glooms.In ranging herself as a partisan on the side of Major Pallaby Mrs.Hoopington had been largely influenced by the fact that she had madeup her mind to marry him at an early date. Against his notoriousbad temper she set his three thousand a year, and his prospectivesuccession to a baronetcy gave a casting vote in his favour. TheMajor's plans on the subject of matrimony were not at present insuch an advanced stage as Mrs. Hoopington's, but he was beginning tofind his way over to Hoopington Hall with a frequency that wasalready being commented on."He had a wretchedly thin field out again yesterday," said Mrs.Hoopington. "Why you didn't bring one or two hunting men down withyou, instead of that stupid Russian boy, I can't think.""Vladimir isn't stupid," protested her niece; "he's one of the mostamusing boys I ever met. Just compare him for a moment with some ofyour heavy hunting men--""Anyhow, my dear Norah, he can't ride.""Russians never can; but he shoots.""Yes; and what does he shoot? Yesterday he brought home awoodpecker in his game-bag.""But he'd shot three pheasants and some rabbits as well.""That's no excuse for including a woodpecker in his game-bag.""Foreigners go in for mixed bags more than we do. A Grand Duke potsa vulture just as seriously as we should stalk a bustard. Anyhow,I've explained to Vladimir that certain birds are beneath hisdignity as a sportsman. And as he's only nineteen, of course, hisdignity is a sure thing to appeal to."Mrs. Hoopington sniffed. Most people with whom Vladimir came incontact found his high spirits infectious, but his present hostesswas guaranteed immune against infection of that sort."I hear him coming in now," she observed. "I shall go and get readyfor tea. We're going to have it here in the hall. Entertain theMajor if he comes in before I'm down, and, above all, be bright."Norah was dependent on her aunt's good graces for many little thingsthat made life worth living, and she was conscious of a feeling ofdiscomfiture because the Russian youth whom she had brought down asa welcome element of change in the country-house routine was notmaking a good impression. That young gentleman, however, wassupremely unconscious of any shortcomings, and burst into the hall,tired, and less sprucely groomed than usual, but distinctly radiant.His game-bag looked comfortably full."Guess what I have shot," he demanded."Pheasants, woodpigeons, rabbits," hazarded Norah."No; a large beast; I don't know what you call it in English.Brown, with a darkish tail." Norah changed colour."Does it live in a tree and eat nuts?" she asked, hoping that theuse of the adjective "large" might be an exaggeration.Vladimir laughed."Oh no; not a biyelka.""Does it swim and eat fish?" asked Norah, with a fervent prayer inher heart that it might turn out to be an otter."No," said Vladimir, busy with the straps of his game-bag; "it livesin the woods, and eats rabbits and chickens."Norah sat down suddenly, and hid her face in her hands."Merciful Heaven!" she wailed; "he's shot a fox!"Vladimir looked up at her in consternation. In a torrent ofagitated words she tried to explain the horror of the situation.The boy understood nothing, but was thoroughly alarmed."Hide it, hide it!" said Norah frantically, pointing to the stillunopened bag. "My aunt and the Major will be here in a moment.Throw it on the top of that chest; they won't see it there."Vladimir swung the bag with fair aim; but the strap caught in itsflight on the outstanding point of an antler fixed in the wall, andthe bag, with its terrible burden, remained suspended just above thealcove where tea would presently be laid. At that moment Mrs.Hoopington and the Major entered the hall."The Major is going to draw our covers to-morrow," announced thelady, with a certain heavy satisfaction. "Smithers is confidentthat we'll be able to show him some sport; he swears he's seen a foxin the nut copse three times this week.""I'm sure I hope so; I hope so," said the Major moodily. "I mustbreak this sequence of blank days. One hears so often that a foxhas settled down as a tenant for life in certain covers, and thenwhen you go to turn him out there isn't a trace of him. I'm certaina fox was shot or trapped in Lady Widden's woods the very day beforewe drew them.""Major, if any one tried that game on in my woods they'd get shortshrift," said Mrs. Hoopington.Norah found her way mechanically to the tea-table and made herfingers frantically busy in rearranging the parsley round thesandwich dish. On one side of her loomed the morose countenance ofthe Major, on the other she was conscious of the scared, miserableeyes of Vladimir. And above it all hung THAT. She dared not raiseher eyes above the level of the tea-table, and she almost expectedto see a spot of accusing vulpine blood drip down and stain thewhiteness of the cloth. Her aunt's manner signalled to her therepeated message to "be bright"; for the present she was fullyoccupied in keeping her teeth from chattering."What did you shoot to-day?" asked Mrs. Hoopington suddenly of theunusually silent Vladimir."Nothing--nothing worth speaking of," said the boy.Norah's heart, which had stood still for a space, made up for losttime with a most disturbing bound."I wish you'd find something that was worth speaking about," saidthe hostess; "every one seems to have lost their tongues.""When did Smithers last see that fox?" said the Major."Yesterday morning; a fine dog-fox, with a dark brush," confidedMrs. Hoopington."Aha, we'll have a good gallop after that brush to-morrow," said theMajor, with a transient gleam of good humour. And then gloomysilence settled again round the teatable, a silence broken only bydespondent munchings and the occasional feverish rattle of ateaspoon in its saucer. A diversion was at last afforded by Mrs.Hoopington's fox-terrier, which had jumped on to a vacant chair, thebetter to survey the delicacies of the table, and was now sniffingin an upward direction at something apparently more interesting thancold tea-cake."What is exciting him?" asked his mistress, as the dog suddenlybroke into short angry barks, with a running accompaniment oftremulous whines."Why," she continued, "it's your gamebag, Vladimir! What HAVE yougot in it?""By Gad," said the Major, who was now standing up; "there's a prettywarm scent!"And then a simultaneous idea flashed on himself and Mrs. Hoopington.Their faces flushed to distinct but harmonious tones of purple, andwith one accusing voice they screamed, "You've shot the fox!"Norah tried hastily to palliate Vladimir's misdeed in their eyes,but it is doubtful whether they heard her. The Major's fury clothedand reclothed itself in words as frantically as a woman up in townfor one day's shopping tries on a succession of garments. Hereviled and railed at fate and the general scheme of things, hepitied himself with a strong, deep pity too poignent for tears, hecondemned every one with whom he had ever come in contact to endlessand abnormal punishments. In fact, he conveyed the impression thatif a destroying angel had been lent to him for a week it would havehad very little time for private study. In the lulls of his outcrycould be heard the querulous monotone of Mrs. Hoopington and thesharp staccato barking of the fox-terrier. Vladimir, who did notunderstand a tithe of what was being said, sat fondling a cigaretteand repeating under his breath from time to time a vigorous Englishadjective which he had long ago taken affectionately into hisvocabulary. His mind strayed back to the youth in the old Russianfolk-tale who shot an enchanted bird with dramatic results.Meanwhile, the Major, roaming round the hall like an imprisonedcyclone, had caught sight of and joyfully pounced on the telephoneapparatus, and lost no time in ringing up the hunt secretary andannouncing his resignation of the Mastership. A servant had by thistime brought his horse round to the door, and in a few seconds Mrs.Hoopington's shrill monotone had the field to itself. But after theMajor's display her best efforts at vocal violence missed their fulleffect; it was as though one had come straight out from a Wagneropera into a rather tame thunderstorm. Realising, perhaps, that hertirades were something of an anticlimax, Mrs. Hoopington brokesuddenly into some rather necessary tears and marched out of theroom, leaving behind her a silence almost as terrible as the turmoilwhich had preceded it."What shall I do with--THAT?" asked Vladimir at last."Bury it," said Norah."Just plain burial?" said Vladimir, rather relieved. He had almostexpected that some of the local clergy would have insisted on beingpresent, or that a salute might have to be fired over the grave.And thus it came to pass that in the dusk of a November evening theRussian boy, murmuring a few of the prayers of his Church for luck,gave hasty but decent burial to a large polecat under the lilactrees at Hoopington.

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