The rissaldar explained that they’d be drawing the country to the west. There were nullahs there, and some of them difficult to see till on top of them, but plenty of jhow, the tamarisk, the bushy manna tree – common cover for pig. At this time of year there were numerous sounders, as well as singleton boars, he said. They usually took three or even four in an hour.

Fairbrother had yet to wield a spear. They hadn’t hunted pig at the Cape. ‘Just recollect that a horse can go where a pig goes, and let him have a long rein,’ said Hervey as they broke into a trot, clear at last of the rings of earthworks, all of which had been thrown up since his first coming here. (What troops there were to man these fortifications no doubt he’d find out.)

‘Chintal’s not famed for its country,’ he added as they debouched onto the grassy plain. It was on the whole rather flat, much of it jungled; and there was nothing very much ancient about Chintalpore which, in decay, would give it the consequence and grace of other princely seats. It was nothing to Coorg, with its hills and noble forest, its fast-flowing streams and sudden vistas. But trappy jungle had its fascination, he supposed, not just for sport but for its mystery. Who knew what it concealed, of past or present?

Fairbrother heard him without remark. It was an unconscionable hour to be abroad, even for sport, and to hear that the country sounded no more appealing than Goree (of late memory) didn’t conduce to conversation.

There were no beaters that Hervey could see, so he imagined they’d simply be riding-up, springing the game themselves. He’d no objection to that. Perhaps he might learn something of value, if there was any conversation with his hosts, though so far the rissaldar seemed disinclined.

But they did seem to be making very determinedly for a particular patch of jhow. He supposed they must hunt the ground regularly.

Sure enough, as they got close to fifty yards a huge boar – a single pig, a ‘sanglier’ – broke cover.

But not as if they’d bolted him. And as he spurred after it he saw it was let slip from a frank. (They’d long given up the practice in Madras, too many beaters gored in the process of taking a pig captive and then carting it elsewhere.)

No matter; the boar ran hard.

Hervey raced straight ahead – the first rule – then on to the line. For not to ride exactly the line that the pig ran would lose ground, and often as not bring a spear to grief – a lesson he’d learned the hard way. There was no seeing the country; the horse did that – a good horse anyway. Let the pig be the pilot, to tell the horse where to put in a fifth leg, and where to shorten its stride. There was never so much trouble riding hard on a boar’s line; the trouble came with trying to ride a parallel one – or a general stern chase.