Tales of the Underwood: the Call of the Huntsman

Dawn was beginning to break as our uneasy little alliance made its way across the fields to where our coach was waiting to take us to the nearest inn for coffee and eggs to heat us up.  At least that was the plan until suddenly we heard a great cheer and the sound of hounds coming over the hill.  ‘What the deuce?’ exclaimed Findlay, startled as we ducked into a culvert and strained our eyes to see what was happening in the distance.  A lone figure was at the bottom of the hill and running straight for us, about a mile behind him were the hounds and then riders hove into view and I recognised everyone of them – it was the Scottish press and they were scanning the horizon for their prey until their horn sounded and they let up a triumphant yell before galloping downhill, again towards us.

‘Bloody typical that they’re coming our way,’ cursed Devine.  ‘And who are they chasing?’

‘It’s the Scottish press, Devine; who do you think they’re bloody chasing, it’s Charles Green!’

‘If we hide inside the culvert then perhaps they’ll all pass us by and we’ll be fine,’ I ventured but Findlay shot me a look that froze my blood while Devine merely opened his hip flask and took a swig.

‘Sorry old boy,’ said Findlay.  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to sacrifice yourself to allow us to get Charles out of here.’

I goggled at him, ‘Me?  Sacrifice myself for Charles Green?  Why I’m usually the first one to lay the boot into him!’

‘Oh do keep up, Spiers’ sighed Findlay.  ‘Tom English is way ahead of you on that front, why I do think you’re yesterdays news when it comes to fighting Rangers and look, the lead horse just in front of Alan Rennie, it’s your old chum English himself.  Now off you pop and create a diversion’ and as he said that he pressed his dagger into my ribs and gave them a tickle just to remind me that I had no choice.

So that’s how I found myself haring across a field pursued by my fellow journalists who thought they were chasing Charles Green who was now sheltering in the culvert with Findlay and Devine.  It didn’t take them long to realise they’d lost Green and that it was me they were hounding but as I grabbed a breather beside a wall they pulled up I could hear a few them debate what to do.

‘Well I really wanted to get Green you know,’ said one.

‘You do realise if we don’t finish him off then Lawwell will finish us off?’ said another.

‘Well Green’s gone but that’s Spiers over there, I hate that bastard as much as Green so why don’t we at least have some sport with him?’ said one who I’m sure was Keith Jackson.

‘Yeah, let’s bring that arrogant fucker down a peg or two, view hulloo?’ and that was certainly Tom English – but I thought he was my friend!  And with that they sounded their hunting horn and galloped after me as I jumped the wall and to my horror landed in the White Cart river again.  The current caught me and dragged me downstream at a speed that was too much for the riders and their hounds who had pulled up at the wall and reckoning he drop into the river not worth the fuss – I had escaped!  But I’d also helped Charles Green evade their clutches and I’d surely pay for that and it was weighing heavily on my mind as I dried out my corduroys back at my west end flat but not heavily enough to stop me from looking out my Martin O’Neil scrapbook and lying back in bed to console myself.