The Green Flag and Other Stories of War and Sport - The King of the Foxes

Nigel Carrington (0:02)

Section 12 The Green Flag and Other Stories of War and Sport by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle The King of the Foxes Read by Nigel Carrington This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.

It was after a hunting dinner, and there were as many scarlet coats as black ones round the table.

The conversation over the cigars had turned, therefore, in the direction of horses and horsemen, with reminiscences of phenomenal runs, where foxes had led the pack from end to end of a county, and been overtaken at last by two or three limping hounds and a huntsman on foot, while every rider in the field had been pounded.

As the port circulated, the runs became longer and more apocryphal until we had the whips inquiring their way and failing to understand the dialect of the people who answered them.

The foxes too became mere eccentric, and we had foxes up pollard willows, foxes which were dragged by the tail out of horses' mangers, and foxes which had raced through an open front door and gone to ground in a lady's bonnet box.

The master had told one or two tall reminiscences, and when he cleared his throat for another, we were all curious, for he was a bit of an artist in his way, and produced his effects in a crescendo fashion. His face wore the earnest, practical, severely accurate expression which heralded some of his finest efforts. It was before I was master, said he. Sir Charles Adair had the hands at that time, and then afterwards they passed to old Latham, and then to me. It may possibly have been just after Latham took them over, but my strong impression is that it was in Adair's time. That would be early in the seventies, about seventy-two, I should say. The man I mean has moved to another part of the country, but I dare say that some of you can remember him. Danbury was the name, Walter Danbury, or Wat Danbury, as the people used to call him. He was the son of old Joe Danbury of High Ascombe, and when his father died he came into a very good thing, for his only brother was drowned when the Magna Charter founded. So he inherited the whole estate. It was but a few hundred acres, but it was good arable land, and those were the great days of farming. Besides it was freehold, and a yeoman farmer without a mortgage was a warmish man before the great fall in wheat came. Foreign wheat and barbed wire, those are the two curses of this country, for the one spoils the farmer's work, and the other spoils his play.

This young Wat Danbury was a very fine fellow, a keen rider and a thorough sportsman, but his head was a little turned at having come when so young into a comfortable fortune, and he went the pace for a year or two. The lad had no vice in him, but there was a hard drinking set in the neighbourhood at that time, and Danbury got drawn in among them. And being an amiable fellow who liked to do what his friends were doing, he very soon took to drinking a great deal more than was good for him. As a rule, a man who takes his exercise may drink as much as he likes in the evening and do himself no very great harm, if he will leave it alone during the day. Danbury had too many friends for that, however, and it really looked as if the poor chap was going to the bad. When a curious thing happened, which pulled him up with such a sudden jerk that he never put his hand upon the neck of a whisky bottle again.

He had a peculiarity, which I have noticed in a good many other men, that though he was always playing tricks with his own health, he was none the less very anxious about it, and was extremely fidgety if ever he had any trivial symptom. Being a tough open air fellow, who was always as hard as a nail, it was seldom that there was anything amiss with him, but at last the drink began to tell. And he woke one morning with his hands shaking, and all his nerves tingling like over-stretched fiddle strings. He had been dining at some very wet house the night before, and the wine had perhaps been more plentiful than choice. At any rate, there he was, with a tongue like a bath-towel and a head that ticked like an eight-day clock. He was very alarmed at his own condition, and he sent for Dr Middleton of Ascombe, the father of the man who practises there now. Middleton had been a great friend of old Danbury's, and he was very sorry to see his son going to the devil. So he improved the occasion by taking his case very seriously, and lecturing him upon the danger of his ways. He shook his head and talked about the possibility of delirium tremens, or even of mania, if he continued to lead such a life. Wat Danbury was horribly frightened. Do you think I am going to get anything of the sort? He wailed. Well really I don't know, said the doctor gravely. I cannot undertake to say that you are out of danger. Your system is very much out of order. At any time during the day you might have those grave symptoms of which I warn you.