stone most quarries carried.
Sam piped up. “We do. Leftover from when Crawford put in the culverts.”
“My suggestion,” said Sister, “and it’s only a suggestion—you gentlemen do as you like—would be to take heavy-duty page wire, run it along the sides, curve in the bottom of the page wire, and put down riprap at the edges until you can properly pour concrete or sucrete.”
“It’s going to be a bitch to dig through this frost to get the wire down in the ground.” Sam did not relish this task.
“Yeah, it is; and bending it forward is no picnic either. Crawford might not want to spend the money on page wire and concrete. He’s going to build a new kennel, right?” Sister inquired.
“Right,” Rory answered.
“You can’t have these hounds running all over the country. Apart from the bad will it creates, some will get killed. They don’t know where they are yet. This is going to be hard as hell to patch up until the temperature is in the high forties at least. I think you’re going to have to spend the money on cinder blocks against the wall and some kind of grid like Equistall for the floor. You’ve got to secure these hounds.”
Crawford had walked in behind them.
Sister turned when she heard the bootsteps. “Happy New Year, Crawford.”
“She brought back three couple of hounds that were at Iffy Demetrios’s,” Sam quickly apprised his boss.
“Iffy is, well, Iffy.” Sister shrugged. “I’ll be getting on home. If I see any more, I’ll pick them up.”
It pained him, but Crawford was man enough to utter “Thank you.” He then puffed out his chest. “They won’t get out again.”
“Dumfreishire blood?” Sister asked sharply, knowing from their looks that the hounds had that type of Scottish blood. Although originally hunted in Scotland, the Dumfreishire was classified as an English hound.
“Right.” Crawford nodded.
“Handsome.” She left them to their labors and thought how foolish Crawford was thinking he could handle this type of hound.
The Dumfreishire, a large handsome hound, would be less high-strung than an American hound, but the good-looking black and tans would rapidly discover that Crawford knew nothing. They’d hunt on their own, discounting him. Also, their nose, not quite as good as that of the American hound, would frustrate him.
The English hound developed in a land of abundant moisture and rich soils. The red clay of central Virginia, occasionally enlivened by Davis loam, put the picturesque English hound at a disadvantage. Crawford would blame the hound, not himself.
On those perfect scenting days, this pack would hunt with brio. The other little thing Crawford would discover the hard way is that English hounds, as a rule, don’t have the cry that American, crossbred, or Penn-Marydels do. Again, given where they were developed, they didn’t need it to the degree that the New World needs a big booming sound, for much of the English countryside is open. One can see the hounds working.
They were big, they were beautiful. That part would swell his ego. Maybe he should just mount up and parade them around until he could find a real huntsman.
As she passed the beginnings of the stone St. Swithun’s Chapel she had ample time to consider the unholy mess Crawford was creating for himself—and for her, too.
“Happy New Year.” She sighed.
As she drove through the imposing gates, two huge bronze boars guarding the entrance had icicles dangling from their snouts. Their bristly chests glistened with ice rivulets. She turned west.
A quarter mile down the road she noted Donny Sweigart’s treads from last night’s supposed deer hunt.
Curious, she pulled as far off the road as she could given the conditions, hit her flashers, and got out. She wanted to see if there was a carcass or deer offal in the snow. She looked down the slight embankment, then over the expanse of snowy meadow. A copse of trees and shrubs stood out against the white. Something
Sam piped up. “We do. Leftover from when Crawford put in the culverts.”
“My suggestion,” said Sister, “and it’s only a suggestion—you gentlemen do as you like—would be to take heavy-duty page wire, run it along the sides, curve in the bottom of the page wire, and put down riprap at the edges until you can properly pour concrete or sucrete.”
“It’s going to be a bitch to dig through this frost to get the wire down in the ground.” Sam did not relish this task.
“Yeah, it is; and bending it forward is no picnic either. Crawford might not want to spend the money on page wire and concrete. He’s going to build a new kennel, right?” Sister inquired.
“Right,” Rory answered.
“You can’t have these hounds running all over the country. Apart from the bad will it creates, some will get killed. They don’t know where they are yet. This is going to be hard as hell to patch up until the temperature is in the high forties at least. I think you’re going to have to spend the money on cinder blocks against the wall and some kind of grid like Equistall for the floor. You’ve got to secure these hounds.”
Crawford had walked in behind them.
Sister turned when she heard the bootsteps. “Happy New Year, Crawford.”
“She brought back three couple of hounds that were at Iffy Demetrios’s,” Sam quickly apprised his boss.
“Iffy is, well, Iffy.” Sister shrugged. “I’ll be getting on home. If I see any more, I’ll pick them up.”
It pained him, but Crawford was man enough to utter “Thank you.” He then puffed out his chest. “They won’t get out again.”
“Dumfreishire blood?” Sister asked sharply, knowing from their looks that the hounds had that type of Scottish blood. Although originally hunted in Scotland, the Dumfreishire was classified as an English hound.
“Right.” Crawford nodded.
“Handsome.” She left them to their labors and thought how foolish Crawford was thinking he could handle this type of hound.
The Dumfreishire, a large handsome hound, would be less high-strung than an American hound, but the good-looking black and tans would rapidly discover that Crawford knew nothing. They’d hunt on their own, discounting him. Also, their nose, not quite as good as that of the American hound, would frustrate him.
The English hound developed in a land of abundant moisture and rich soils. The red clay of central Virginia, occasionally enlivened by Davis loam, put the picturesque English hound at a disadvantage. Crawford would blame the hound, not himself.
On those perfect scenting days, this pack would hunt with brio. The other little thing Crawford would discover the hard way is that English hounds, as a rule, don’t have the cry that American, crossbred, or Penn-Marydels do. Again, given where they were developed, they didn’t need it to the degree that the New World needs a big booming sound, for much of the English countryside is open. One can see the hounds working.
They were big, they were beautiful. That part would swell his ego. Maybe he should just mount up and parade them around until he could find a real huntsman.
As she passed the beginnings of the stone St. Swithun’s Chapel she had ample time to consider the unholy mess Crawford was creating for himself—and for her, too.
“Happy New Year.” She sighed.
As she drove through the imposing gates, two huge bronze boars guarding the entrance had icicles dangling from their snouts. Their bristly chests glistened with ice rivulets. She turned west.
A quarter mile down the road she noted Donny Sweigart’s treads from last night’s supposed deer hunt.
Curious, she pulled as far off the road as she could given the conditions, hit her flashers, and got out. She wanted to see if there was a carcass or deer offal in the snow. She looked down the slight embankment, then over the expanse of snowy meadow. A copse of trees and shrubs stood out against the white. Something
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