The Hounds of Fate

"The Hounds of Fate" by Hector Hugh Munro, better known by his pen name Saki, is a short story that explores themes of fate, chance, and the human propensity to seek meaning in life's coincidences. Set in a world where the unexpected intertwines with the mundane, the narrative follows characters as they navigate their encounters with mysterious forces and the consequences of their decisions. Saki's trademark wit and sharp social commentary illuminate the absurdities of human nature and the unpredictability of destiny, captivating readers with his distinctive storytelling style.

• Short story

								
In the fading light of a close dull autumn afternoon Martin Stoner
plodded his way along muddy lanes and rut-seamed cart tracks that led
he knew not exactly whither.  Somewhere in front of him, he fancied,
lay the sea, and towards the sea his footsteps seemed persistently
turning; why he was struggling wearily forward to that goal he could
scarcely have explained, unless he was possessed by the same instinct
that turns a hard-pressed stag cliffward in its last extremity.  In his
case the hounds of Fate were certainly pressing him with unrelenting
insistence; hunger, fatigue, and despairing hopelessness had numbed his
brain, and he could scarcely summon sufficient energy to wonder what
underlying impulse was driving him onward.  Stoner was one of those
unfortunate individuals who seem to have tried everything; a natural
slothfulness and improvidence had always intervened to blight any
chance of even moderate success, and now he was at the end of his
tether, and there was nothing more to try.  Desperation had not
awakened in him any dormant reserve of energy; on the contrary, a
mental torpor grew up round the crisis of his fortunes.  With the
clothes he stood up in, a halfpenny in his pocket, and no single friend
or acquaintance to turn to, with no prospect either of a bed for the
night or a meal for the morrow, Martin Stoner trudged stolidly forward,
between moist hedgerows and beneath dripping trees, his mind almost a
blank, except that he was subconsciously aware that somewhere in front
of him lay the sea.  Another consciousness obtruded itself now and
then--the knowledge that he was miserably hungry.  Presently he came to
a halt by an open gateway that led into a spacious and rather neglected
farm-garden; there was little sign of life about, and the farm-house at
the further end of the garden looked chill and inhospitable.  A
drizzling rain, however, was setting in, and Stoner thought that here
perhaps he might obtain a few minutes' shelter and buy a glass of milk
with his last remaining coin.  He turned slowly and wearily into the
garden and followed a narrow, flagged path up to a side door.  Before
he had time to knock the door opened and a bent, withered-looking old
man stood aside in the doorway as though to let him pass in.

"Could I come in out of the rain?" Stoner began, but the old man
interrupted him.

"Come in, Master Tom.  I knew you would come back one of these days."

Stoner lurched across the threshold and stood staring uncomprehendingly
at the other.

"Sit down while I put you out a bit of supper," said the old man with
quavering eagerness.  Stoner's legs gave way from very weariness, and
he sank inertly into the arm-chair that had been pushed up to him.  In
another minute he was devouring the cold meat, cheese, and bread, that
had been placed on the table at his side.

"You'm little changed these four years," went on the old man, in a
voice that sounded to Stoner as something in a dream, far away and
inconsequent; "but you'll find us a deal changed, you will. There's no
one about the place same as when you left; nought but me and your old
Aunt.  I'll go and tell her that you'm come; she won't be seeing you,
but she'll let you stay right enough.  She always did say if you was to
come back you should stay, but she'd never set eyes on you or speak to
you again."

The old man placed a mug of beer on the table in front of Stoner and
then hobbled away down a long passage.  The drizzle of rain had changed
to a furious lashing downpour, which beat violently against door and
windows.  The wanderer thought with a shudder of what the sea-shore
must look like under this drenching rainfall, with night beating down
on all sides.  He finished the food and beer and sat numbly waiting for
the return of his strange host. As the minutes ticked by on the
grandfather clock in the corner a new hope began to flicker and grow in
the young man's mind; it was merely the expansion of his former craving
for food and a few minutes' rest into a longing to find a night's
shelter under this seemingly hospitable roof.  A clattering of
footsteps down the passage heralded the old farm servant's return.

"The old missus won't see you, Master Tom, but she says you are to
stay.  'Tis right enough, seeing the farm will be yours when she be put
under earth.  I've had a fire lit in your room, Master Tom, and the
maids has put fresh sheets on to the bed.  You'll find nought changed
up there.  Maybe you'm tired and would like to go there now."

Without a word Martin Stoner rose heavily to his feet and followed his
ministering angel along a passage, up a short creaking stair, along
another passage, and into a large room lit with a cheerfully blazing
fire.  There was but little furniture, plain, old-fashioned, and good
of its kind; a stuffed squirrel in a case and a wall-calendar of four
years ago were about the only symptoms of decoration.  But Stoner had
eyes for little else than the bed, and could scarce wait to tear his
clothes off him before rolling in a luxury of weariness into its
comfortable depths.  The hounds of Fate seemed to have checked for a
brief moment.

In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as he slowly
realized the position in which he found himself.  Perhaps he might
snatch a bit of breakfast on the strength of his likeness to this other
missing ne'er-do-well, and get safely away before anyone discovered the
fraud that had been thrust on him.  In the room downstairs he found the
bent old man ready with a dish of bacon and fried eggs for "Master
Tom's" breakfast, while a hard-faced elderly maid brought in a teapot
and poured him out a cup of tea.  As he sat at the table a small
spaniel came up and made friendly advances.

"'Tis old Bowker's pup," explained the old man, whom the hard-faced
maid had addressed as George.  "She was main fond of you; never seemed
the same after you went away to Australee.  She died 'bout a year
agone.  'Tis her pup."

Stoner found it difficult to regret her decease; as a witness for
identification she would have left something to be desired.

"You'll go for a ride, Master Tom?" was the next startling proposition
that came from the old man.  "We've a nice little roan cob that goes
well in saddle.  Old Biddy is getting a bit up in years, though 'er
goes well still, but I'll have the little roan saddled and brought
round to door."

"I've got no riding things," stammered the castaway, almost laughing as
he looked down at his one suit of well-worn clothes.

"Master Tom," said the old man earnestly, almost with an offended air,
"all your things is just as you left them.  A bit of airing before the
fire an' they'll be all right.  'Twill be a bit of a distraction like,
a little riding and wild-fowling now and agen. You'll find the folk
around here has hard and bitter minds towards you.  They hasn't
forgotten nor forgiven.  No one'll come nigh you, so you'd best get

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