'Iss, sir. The King Oter, I call him.'
'Then why didn't you bring word?'
'I did, sir, fast as I could, but you'd gone off to the revur. 'Twas Mr. Pugmore as told me.'
'I see, I see! Pull with your right, or we shall be into the island. That will do; now both together.'
'Wind him, my lads! middy ho, wind him! Padzepaw, Troubadour, Rowtor, wind him! Wind him, my lads!' The cheery cry seemed to put fresh life into
the hounds as they worked the reeds, from which they presently drove the quarry to the mere.
The squire's keen eyes searched the glittering surface to get a glimpse of him, but in vain; the hounds might have been giving tongue to some phantom quarry for all that he or the old man saw. And so the chase continued for an hour, and another and another, whilst the otter led the pack from reed-bed to reed-bed, where he rose and vented without exposing himself.
At last the marshman, who at the moment was resting on the oars, pointed to the surface beneath the right blade.
'The chain, the chain!' whispered the squire excitedly on sighting the string of bubbles, and 'There he vents!' as the nose of the quarry showed
