We shook hands."So you're over from
England, eh? Great place, great place, I was over there in the forces just after the war,
had a terrific time. Have you hunted there much?"
''A fair bit,'' I said bending the truth a little. ''I really enjoy it!''
"Good, I need a Huntsman," he said. "Think you could do it?"
"Er.. .don't you mean a whipper-in?" I said hesitantly.
"No, a Huntsman," he peered at me closely. "What's the problem?"
"Well, I've had no training, I've never hunted a pack..." I muttered.
"You'll learn! You'll learn! Anyway, we're a new club, most of our members have
hardly done any hunting, they won't know the difference!"
His enthusiasm was contagious. I looked at the seemingly endless row of stalls still to be
mucked out, then back at him.
"Well do you want the job or not?"
''When can I start?'' I said.
A week later, Gordon picked me up and took me to Fred Pickwick for a three-day crash
course on how to be a huntsman. Every morning we exercised, fed and cleaned out the hounds
then, in the afternoon, we would ride out so that Fred could show me how to handle them.
At the end of the training Gordon returned and we drove to his farm in Hespeler where he
installed me in a flat above a small farmhouse. It was luxurious accommodation after the
bunkhouse and I didn't have to get up at five a.m. He took me around the stables and
showed me the five horses with which I would be working. Four were nice big bays and mine
was a huge pure-white grey. The newly-built kennels inside the barn were empty.
"We're going to pick up the hounds tomorrow," he said briskly, looking through
the wire mesh of the small run. "The whipper-in will be turning up in the morning and
a van for the hounds will be delivered tonight, so we're all set! Hunting starts around
here in May, which will give you six weeks to learn all about it!"
With that, he thrust a package into my hands. In it was a shiny brass horn and a small red
book called Hunting by Ear. I swallowed nervously and smiled at him with what I hoped was
calm professionalism.
The Cadillac cruised majestically up the tree-lined driveway the following morning, except
for the crunch of gravel under its tires it made no noise as it glided past. Stopping in
front of the barn the door swung open and Gordon slowly pulled himself out. He was
slightly subdued.
"I'm sorry Michael, but the whipper-in did not turn up this morning, can't think what
happened to him," he said.
I found out later that the so-called whip was just an old odd-job man and chronic drunk
who knew nothing about horses and hounds and had not put in an appearance because he was
out on a binge.
"Never mind, we shouldn't have too much trouble picking up the hounds between the two
of us."
Like the whipper-in, the hound truck was another euphemism, an ancient van half-eaten by
rust with a section of chicken wire tied behind the seats to keep the hounds in the back.
It sat dejectedly outside the barn.I got in and kicked over the starter motor. After a few
unhealthy coughs the engine sprang into life with a deafening roar coming from the
battered exhaust. I engaged the transmission and jerkily followed the Cadillac out of the
drive.
An hour and a half later we arrived at the Toronto and North York Hunt Kennels in Aurora,
where we were greeted by Fred Pickwick, dressed for action in a white coverall.
"Morning," he grunted. "I've got your six couple already chosen, they're in
the end pen over there with all the other hounds. You'd better drive your truck right up
to the doorway, make it easier to load them."
He took out a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and carefully placed them on the end of his
nose, methodically curling the sides around his ears.
"Now let me see," he mused, peering at a grubby piece of paper in his hand,
"I've six dogs and six bitches for you.
He opened the wire gate and instantly all the hounds started barking and howling. |
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