October had been wet. Rain in the forest is, at all times of the year, depressing. When the sun shines on purple heather, emerald fern, and the ruddy stems of fir-trees, moorland and hillside are gay enough, but in wet and stormy weather the landscape is the more gloomy by contrast; the lowering clouds, the black sobbing pines, the pools of water, the soggy tussocks squelching underfoot, make up a dull and cheerless scene, although in the eyes of the forest lover it is perhaps then at its best. The damp atmosphere intensifies the local colour, and gives a sense of vastness and distance to the perspectives.

The forest ponies dislike rain. They have to seek food most of their day, and cannot afford to stand idly in shelter like their more favoured relations. Also the boggy ground gets still more shaky and uncertain, and the wary creature is cut off from the areas which might supply him with food. In long continued rain the ponies leave the open moor or hillside, and betake themselves to the woods, where, under the umbrellas formed by the great oaks, beeches, and firs, they find shelter, especially from what most living creatures detest—a cold driving rain.

Skewbald, therefore, was with his companions in the woods, nosing round for clumps of sweet grass, or, in the wettest spells, taking shelter under overhanging trunks. His coat had grown thick during the autumn, and with his dense mane and tail he was as well protected as a pony could be.

The colt-hunter also disliked rain, for apart from the discomforts of the chase in wet weather, rounding up the ponies is vastly more difficult in the woods. On the open moor the chase is not always successful. Not seldom one may drive ponies from miles away to within sight of the open gate, and then something may arouse their mistrust, may cause them to break away, and the work has to be done over again. But, all things considered, the chase on the moor is a picnic compared with driving ponies out of the woods. In the open one has the great advantage of being able to view one’s quarry from a distance, and formulate beforehand a plan of campaign. But in the woods one must search and search until the ponies are chanced upon, and then stick tenaciously to their heels until a capture is effected. In the denser parts, one may beat about all day, and although the ponies may be near, and even heard and seen, yet they may change their ground so evasively that night may fall and still find them uncaptured.

It was not raining much when the colt-hunter and his boy rode out one morning, but the sky gave every promise of a downpour later on. “Wet skins for us to-day, Tom,” said his father, as he donned an old mackintosh, and a wide-brimmed hat, which would divert the rain from his neck. Like other people who are out in all weathers, he had no use for caps, which in heavy rain let the water trickle down one’s back. Both riders had bread and cheese in their pockets, for they might be out all day, if they were not fortunate in the chase. It had been arranged that they should meet the agister, who wished their help in locating and catching some yearlings and older ponies. At this time of the year ponies are caught in some numbers, and sent to the autumn and winter sales.

The colt-hunter, by long experience and a good memory for the forms and hues of ponies, knew most of the many hundreds in the forest, and their pedigrees. He was acquainted also with the likely places where a wanted pony might be found at any time of the year.

The hunters, with a cheery good-bye to Mother and Molly, rode some distance across the moorland and through the rides in the woods, skirted bogs, and then made their way up a stone-strewn hillpath to the south, past the spot where the young airman, flying from the training-ground on Beaulieu Heath, had stooped at a great white cross of gravel, marked out on the hillside, and had nose-dived to the ground, crumpling up his machine and breathing his last in the arms of a visitor camping near by. Father and son rode across the barren plateau of Blackdown; to the east the great tumulus stood dark and plain on the skyline, but in front of them Wood Fidley was almost obscured by driving clouds of rain-mist coming from the south-west.

When they reached the main road, they found the agister waiting for them. He had on his buckled hat, but his official coat was hidden under his horseman’s cloak. He also foreboded bad weather and a long drive through the woods. They crossed the road—now firm and smooth, very unlike its stone-strewn surface during a dry summer—took a winding path over the moors, and so into the woods.

The colt-hunter led the way into the deepest recesses, where great oaks and beeches leaned one against the other, while the ground was encumbered with undergrowth. As they slowed down to a walk, they saw ponies, half-hidden by the bushes, stealing away. “There’s one of those we’re after,” said the agister, “and there’s another.”

Skewbald was not one of the wanted animals, but of course he was not to know that, and made off with the rest. It was now raining hard, the wood full of driving mist, and the going very heavy. The fugitives had the best of it, for the ridden ponies sank below their fetlocks in the wetter parts, while fallen branches, tangles of briers and brambles, and drooping holly boughs impeded their progress.

Tom’s pony, as keen as her rider, and not so heavily weighted, made but little of the heavy ground. She made straight for the fugitives directly she heard or saw them, without waiting for Tom’s directing hand on the reins, and several times he was literally pulled from the saddle by projecting boughs of holly, thorn, or oak. But he held on to his mount, though torn, scratched, and wet through. Then, when separated from the other riders, he saw his opportunity, for he came upon Skewbald and a wanted yearling which had got away from them earlier in the day, sheltering behind some dense holly bushes. Off they went, with Tom close on their heels, and after some amount of twisting and turning, the fugitives came out on a grassy drive, with a gate at the far end.

Skewbald made the pace for his companion, and Tom put on a last spurt, trying to get even with his quarry. Skewbald, as he approached the barrier, glanced back at his pursuer, then, acting under an overmastering impulse to escape, went at the gate, cleared it, and was at once lost to sight in a forest enclosure. Tom went right on, charging full tilt into the other pony, which he pinned against the gate, nearly knocking the wind out of both animals. Before the yearling had recovered himself Tom had him haltered, and a safe prisoner.

In the New Year Skewbald again used his jumping powers, and this time saved his life thereby. He was feeding with two other young ponies in a rough part of the forest, when a stray hound, a deserter from the kennels, alarmed them. The intruder, perhaps wishing for company, ran towards them, but the ponies, not relishing his advances, set off at a trot. The hound followed, and the trot became a gallop. It chanced that an artillery company, training in the forest, had dug some pits which had not yet been filled in. The ponies are, as a rule, quite able to take care of themselves. They have a good sense of geography and know the dangerous spots, as bogs and pits, but, being driven away from the training-ground, they were unaware of the existence of the excavations.

As Skewbald fled, through gorse, tall heather, and bog myrtle, the pony in front of him disappeared with a cry, and, the next moment, he found himself at the edge of a deep and wide pit, with no time to turn. But the accident to his companion had given him that fraction of a second of preparation which was enough for his nerve and muscle. He made a spasmodic leap, and just managed to land his heels on the far side. The third also leapt, but fell short.

When the hound, hearing the ponies’ moans, looked down, he fled with a yelp of dismay. Later, the huntsmen, searching for the truant, found the two ponies, one dead and the other grievously hurt.