Mr American. George Fraser MacDonald

was conscious of a lean brown face and two cold steady eyes staring into his, and what he thought he saw in them took him aback. Still, he hesitated, and then the quiet voice said:

      “Step down, Jarvie.”

      And to his own astonishment, Jarvie found himself stepping down into the road, while exclamations of surprise and bewilderment came from the onlookers.

      “Thank you,” said Mr Franklin, and came round to Jarvie’s side of the trap, where the hounds, subdued and fretful by now, were whining round the huntsman’s boots. It was echoed by a murmur of discontent from the hunt. “What the deuce?” grumbled one stringy old gentleman with a puce complexion, and a stout woman said: “Really!” At this the burly young man, momentarily rendered speechless by his huntsman’s apparent defection, swung down from his saddle and strode towards the trap. Mr Franklin moved to confront him, and the young man stopped, his face flushed with fury.

      “What the devil d’you mean by … by impeding the hunt?” he demanded.

      “What do you mean,” responded Mr Franklin, “by interrupting my dinner and invading my property?”

      “His dinner,” exclaimed a female voice. “Did you hear?” And: “Property?” demanded the stringy man. “What property? Stuff and nonsense!”

      “As I said, it is my trap, and my basket,” said Mr Franklin, and the murmur rose to a growl, although one or two of the hunt, struck by the comic side of the situation, laughed. Among them was an angel-faced young lady in a bowler hat with her hair tied back in a large black bow; it seemed to him that her laughter particularly stung the burly young man, who was standing glowering uncertainly.

      “Dammit, sir, this is dam’ ridiculous,” exclaimed a fat man whose complexion matched his coat. “You’ve got the dam’ fox in the dam’ basket! What? You – you can’t steal a dam’ fox, dammit!”

      “I’m not stealing anything,” said Mr Franklin abruptly; his temper was still high. “The fox arrived uninvited –”

      “Well, then, let the dam’ thing go!” exclaimed the stringy man. “Good God, never heard the like in all my life!” He glared suspiciously at Mr Franklin. “Are you some kind of blasted Yankee crank, or what?”

      “Shove him out of the way, Frank,” shouted a voice, and the burly young man came a step closer to Mr Franklin; plainly he was measuring the American’s breadth of shoulder and general potential in a roadside brawl, for he demanded: “Are you going to stand out of the way?”

      “No,” said Mr Franklin with a coolness he was far from feeling, “and if you lay a hand on anything that belongs to me, I’ll not only sue you under whatever laws you have in England, I’ll also beat the living daylights out of you.”

      At this, slight pandemonium broke out; someone suggested getting the police, the young man clenched his fists, Mr Franklin braced himself, but before the young man could do anything rash he was set aside by a blond young giant who grinned amiably at Mr Franklin, tossed his hat away, and cried: “That’s the ticket! Want a turn-up, do you, Yankee! Come on, then, here we are!”

      “Arthur, stop it!” cried the girl with the black bow, but Arthur shook his head, his eyes laughing as he watched Franklin. “No, no, Peg, you mind your own business. If this chap’s ready to fight for his fox, good luck to him! Eh, Yankee?”

      “If you like,” said Mr Franklin slowly, and at this point another of the huntsmen urged his horse forward; an elderly, intelligent-looking man with a distinct air of authority.

      “Stop this dam’ nonsense,” he said. “Arthur, don’t be a fool! And you, sir, what are you driving at? Are you bent on making mischief – you’ve no right to … to make away with that fox, and you know it!”

      “I haven’t even touched the fox,” said Mr Franklin. “And I dare say I’d have felt obliged to let him loose five minutes ago – if someone had just troubled to ask me politely.”

      “Politely!” echoed the stringy man in disbelief, and the fat man said the fellow was mad. But the intelligent-looking man stared hard at Mr Franklin and then said: “Come sir, this is foolish. It’s not our fault if the creature went to ground in your basket –”

      “Not mine, either,” said Mr Franklin. “I didn’t chase him there.”

      There were cries of derision at this, and then the angel-faced girl with the bow called out mischievously: “If I say, ‘Please, sir, may we have our fox back?’” will you let him go?”

      “Too late, Peg, too late!” cried Arthur, grinning. “Isn’t it, Yank?”

      “This is a dam’ farce!” cried the fat man. “Dammit, this is meant to be a dam’ hunt, isn’t it?”

      Mr Franklin surveyed the faces in front of him; Arthur, gleefully ready for a fight, the burly man Frank scowling, most of the mounted men plainly annoyed, the angelic girl watching speculatively; one or two of the others grinning. He was dimly aware of the sound of a motor engine approaching.

      “All right, then,” he said, nodding to the girl. “I’ll let the fox out – and your dogs can pull him apart. Is that what you want?”

      She stiffened, and twitched a hand at her modishly-fitting black riding skirt; a spot of colour showed on her cheek.

      “I said ‘if I asked’,” she said. “Well, I’m not.”

      “Good for you, Peg!” said Arthur. “Come on, Yankee – either cough up or put them up.” And he assumed a boxing pose, while exclamations of disgust and anger rose again, only to die away very suddenly, and Mr Franklin was aware that the huntsmen were reining back, removing their hats, and making respectful gestures towards the road behind him. He turned, and saw that the large Mercedes motor had pulled up a few yards off; the stout old bearded gentleman and the green-eyed lady were staring at him with astonishment.

      “You,” said the bearded gentleman loudly. “I thought you were going to West … West – where was it, Alice?”

      “Walsham,” said the green-eyed lady. Her lively glance was taking in the scene, sensing that something extremely odd was taking place. “I rather fancy that Mr Franklin has met with some unexpected delay.”

      One of the hunt, an extremely bald and ugly man, had hurried to the motor, hat in hand, and was speaking rapidly to the bearded gentleman, whose comments as he listened were distinctly audible. “What? What? I don’t believe it, Soveral! In where, d’you say? His picnic basket?” And then he began to laugh again, his little eyes shut as he wheezed in helpless mirth – and Mr Franklin noted that the hunt were echoing his laughter, but in a most forced and wary way. It was extremely odd – but then the whole ridiculous incident was odd; Mr Franklin wondered if he were dreaming, but now the bearded gentleman’s laughter had subsided, and he was beckoning, and possibly because he sensed that the bearded man was someone of consequence, or out of politeness, Mr Franklin moved up to the motor.

      “Tell me,” said the bearded gentleman, and his small eyes were twinkling with delight. “Were you thinking of adding the fox to your lunch?”

      There was a roar of laughter at this, and Mr Franklin smiled. “No, Mr Lancaster,” he said. “But I wasn’t chasing him. I don’t know what these ladies and gentlemen intended by him.”

      “Ha!” cried Mr Lancaster, and chuckled. “But they want him back, you know. Can’t interfere with a hunt, eh?”

      “Well, sir, all they have to do is ask. But for some reason they don’t seem to want to – they seem to prefer to smash up a man’s things, without so much as a by your leave. We don’t reckon much to that, where I come from. Anyway – I don’t know your English law, but I’d imagine the fox belongs to whoever’s property it’s on, and it’s on mine this minute, no question.” Mr Franklin paused for breath; he was not used to long speeches, but although his temper had cooled by now, the memory of the man Frank’s boorish behaviour rankled.