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This is what happened. After pushing off, we, the field, didn’t have time to exchange usual tales of unpreparedness before our Joint-Master, Jim Bill Fletcher, halted the pack at the foot of Fielding Mt. Here he produced, (so to speak, out of his sleeve,) for our incredulous admiration, two small boxes with tall, shining antenna rods. He gave one to the Whip, Jimmie Dodson, with instructions to keep hounds and huntsman under his surveillance at all times in order to report to the Master on the pack’s activities—in a word, keep in touch. The Huntsman, the hounds, and one vintaged foxhunter, Oliver Durant, showed marked lack of interest during a short on-the-spot demonstration of “intercom,” with several ship-to-shore “overs” and professional-sounding test phrases. The rest of the field was delightedly intrigued.
As soon as Walkie-Talkies were pocketed by Master and Whip, hounds started impatiently up the precipitous mountainside. We fell in behind the Masters for the taxing climb through tangled woods to the ridge. When we conquered the top—that is just the way you and your horse feel upon arrival —the pack was well away, out of sight, out of sound.
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