{"id":25469,"date":"2025-12-08T10:33:26","date_gmt":"2025-12-08T14:33:26","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=25469"},"modified":"2025-12-08T10:33:28","modified_gmt":"2025-12-08T14:33:28","slug":"saki-the-hounds-of-fate","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/saki-the-hounds-of-fate\/25469\/","title":{"rendered":"Saki: The Hounds of Fate"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> In \u201cThe Hounds of Fate,\u201d a short story by Saki first published in 1911 in The Chronicles of Clovis<\/em>, Martin Stoner, a man worn down by despair and exhaustion, wanders aimlessly along a muddy path, believing he is headed toward the sea. The rain drives him to seek shelter in an old manor, where he is received by an elderly man who mistakes him for Tom, the long-absent heir of the house\u2019s mistress, gone for four years. Taking advantage of the misunderstanding, Stoner settles into the manor and enjoys its hospitality. However, he soon discovers that behind the identity he has assumed lies a dark secret whose consequences threaten to overtake him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"Saki:<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

The Hounds of Fate<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Saki
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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 \u2014 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\u2019 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCould I come in out of the rain?\u201d Stoner began, but the old man interrupted him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome in, Master Tom. I knew you would come back one of these days.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stoner lurched across the threshold and stood staring uncomprehendingly at the other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSit down while I put you out a bit of supper,\u201d said the old man with quavering eagerness. Stoner\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019m little changed these four years,\u201d went on the old man, in a voice that sounded to Stoner as something in a dream, far away and inconsequent; \u201cbut you\u2019ll find us a deal changed, you will. There\u2019s no one about the place same as when you left; nought but me and your old Aunt. I\u2019ll go and tell her that you\u2019m come; she won\u2019t be seeing you, but she\u2019ll let you stay right enough. She always did say if you was to come back you should stay, but she\u2019d never set eyes on you or speak to you again.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s mind; it was merely the expansion of his former craving for food and a few minutes\u2019 rest into a longing to find a night\u2019s shelter under this seemingly hospitable roof. A clattering of footsteps down the passage heralded the old farm servant\u2019s return.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe old missus won\u2019t see you, Master Tom, but she says you are to stay. \u2019Tis right enough, seeing the farm will be yours when she be put under earth. I\u2019ve had a fire lit in your room, Master Tom, and the maids has put fresh sheets on to the bed. You\u2019ll find nought changed up there. Maybe you\u2019m tired and would like to go there now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019er-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 \u201cMaster Tom\u2019s\u201d 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2019Tis old Bowker\u2019s pup,\u201d explained the old man, whom the hard-faced maid had addressed as George. \u201cShe was main fond of you; never seemed the same after you went away to Australee. She died \u2018bout a year agone. \u2019Tis her pup.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stoner found it difficult to regret her decease; as a witness for identification she would have left something to be desired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll go for a ride, Master Tom?\u201d was the next startling proposition that came from the old man. \u201cWe\u2019ve a nice little roan cob that goes well in saddle. Old Biddy is getting a bit up in years, though \u2018er goes well still, but I\u2019ll have the little roan saddled and brought round to door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got no riding things,\u201d stammered the castaway, almost laughing as he looked down at his one suit of well-worn clothes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaster Tom,\u201d said the old man earnestly, almost with an offended air, \u201call your things is just as you left them. A bit of airing before the fire an\u2019 they\u2019ll be all right. \u2018Twill be a bit of a distraction like, a little riding and wild-fowling now and agen. You\u2019ll find the folk around here has hard and bitter minds towards you. They hasn\u2019t forgotten nor forgiven. No one\u2019ll come nigh you, so you\u2019d best get what distraction you can with horse and dog. They\u2019m good company, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Old George hobbled away to give his orders, and Stoner, feeling more than ever like one in a dream, went upstairs to inspect \u201cMaster Tom\u2019s\u201d wardrobe. A ride was one of the pleasures dearest to his heart, and there was some protection against immediate discovery of his imposture in the thought that none of Tom\u2019s aforetime companions were likely to favour him with a close inspection. As the interloper thrust himself into some tolerably well-fitting riding cords he wondered vaguely what manner of misdeed the genuine Tom had committed to set the whole countryside against him. The thud of quick, eager hoofs on damp earth cut short his speculations. The roan cob had been brought up to the side door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTalk of beggars on horseback,\u201d thought Stoner to himself, as he trotted rapidly along the muddy lanes where he had tramped yesterday as a down-at-heel outcast; and then he flung reflection indolently aside and gave himself up to the pleasure of a smart canter along the turf-grown side of a level stretch of road. At an open gateway he checked his pace to allow two carts to turn into a field. The lads driving the carts found time to give him a prolonged stare, and as he passed on he heard an excited voice call out, \u201c\u2019Tis Tom Prike! I knowed him at once; showing hisself here agen, is he?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Evidently the likeness which had imposed at close quarters on a doddering old man was good enough to mislead younger eyes at a short distance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the course of his ride he met with ample evidence to confirm the statement that local folk had neither forgotten nor forgiven the bygone crime which had come to him as a legacy from the absent Tom. Scowling looks, mutterings, and nudgings greeted him whenever he chanced upon human beings; \u201cBowker\u2019s pup,\u201d trotting placidly by his side, seemed the one element of friendliness in a hostile world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As he dismounted at the side door he caught a fleeting glimpse of a gaunt, elderly woman peering at him from behind the curtain of an upper window. Evidently this was his aunt by adoption.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Over the ample midday meal that stood in readiness for him Stoner was able to review the possibilities of his extraordinary situation. The real Tom, after four years of absence, might suddenly turn up at the farm, or a letter might come from him at any moment. Again, in the character of heir to the farm, the false Tom might be called on to sign documents, which would be an embarrassing predicament. Or a relative might arrive who would not imitate the aunt\u2019s attitude of aloofness. All these things would mean ignominious exposure. On the other hand, the alternative was the open sky and the muddy lanes that led down to the sea. The farm offered him, at any rate, a temporary refuge from destitution; farming was one of the many things he had \u201ctried,\u201d and he would be able to do a certain amount of work in return for the hospitality to which he was so little entitled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWill you have cold pork for your supper,\u201d asked the hard-faced maid, as she cleared the table, \u201cor will you have it hotted up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHot, with onions,\u201d said Stoner. It was the only time in his life that he had made a rapid decision. And as he gave the order he knew that he meant to stay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stoner kept rigidly to those portions of the house which seemed to have been allotted to him by a tacit treaty of delimitation. When he took part in the farm-work it was as one who worked under orders and never initiated them. Old George, the roan cob, and Bowker\u2019s pup were his sole companions in a world that was otherwise frostily silent and hostile. Of the mistress of the farm he saw nothing. Once, when he knew she had gone forth to church, he made a furtive visit to the farm parlour in an endeavour to glean some fragmentary knowledge of the young man whose place he had usurped, and whose ill-repute he had fastened on himself. There were many photographs hung on the walls, or stuck in prim frames, but the likeness he sought for was not among them. At last, in an album thrust out of sight, he came across what he wanted. There was a whole series, labelled \u201cTom,\u201d a podgy child of three, in a fantastic frock, an awkward boy of about twelve, holding a cricket bat as though he loathed it, a rather good-looking youth of eighteen with very smooth, evenly parted hair, and, finally, a young man with a somewhat surly dare-devil expression. At this last portrait Stoner looked with particular interest; the likeness to himself was unmistakable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on most subjects, he tried again and again to learn something of the nature of the offence which shut him off as a creature to be shunned and hated by his fellow-men.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do the folk around here say about me?\u201d he asked one day as they were walking home from an outlying field.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Aye, \u2019tis a sad business, a sad business.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And never could he be got to say anything more enlightening.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival of Christmas, Stoner stood in a corner of the orchard which commanded a wide view of the countryside. Here and there he could see the twinkling dots of lamp or candle glow which told of human homes where the goodwill and jollity of the season held their sway. Behind him lay the grim, silent farm-house, where no one ever laughed, where even a quarrel would have seemed cheerful. As he turned to look at the long grey front of the gloom-shadowed building, a door opened and old George came hurriedly forth. Stoner heard his adopted name called in a tone of strained anxiety. Instantly he knew that something untoward had happened, and with a quick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in his eyes a place of peace and contentment, from which he dreaded to be driven.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaster Tom,\u201d said the old man in a hoarse whisper, \u201cyou must slip away quiet from here for a few days. Michael Ley is back in the village, an\u2019 he swears to shoot you if he can come across you. He\u2019ll do it, too, there\u2019s murder in the look of him. Get away under cover of night, \u2019tis only for a week or so, he won\u2019t be here longer.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut where am I to go?\u201d stammered Stoner, who had caught the infection of the old man\u2019s obvious terror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGo right away along the coast to Punchford and keep hid there. When Michael\u2019s safe gone I\u2019ll ride the roan over to the Green Dragon at Punchford; when you see the cob stabled at the Green Dragon \u2019tis a sign you may come back agen.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut\u2014\u201d began Stoner hesitatingly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2019Tis all right for money,\u201d said the other; \u201cthe old Missus agrees you\u2019d best do as I say, and she\u2019s given me this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old man produced three sovereigns and some odd silver.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stoner felt more of a cheat than ever as he stole away that night from the back gate of the farm with the old woman\u2019s money in his pocket. Old George and Bowker\u2019s pup stood watching him a silent farewell from the yard. He could scarcely fancy that he would ever come back, and he felt a throb of compunction for those two humble friends who would wait wistfully for his return. Some day perhaps the real Tom would come back, and there would be wild wonderment among those simple farm folks as to the identity of the shadowy guest they had harboured under their roof. For his own fate he felt no immediate anxiety; three pounds goes but little way in the world when there is nothing behind it, but to a man who has counted his exchequer in pennies it seems a good starting-point. Fortune had done him a whimsically kind turn when last he trod these lanes as a hopeless adventurer, and there might yet be a chance of his finding some work and making a fresh start; as he got further from the farm his spirits rose higher. There was a sense of relief in regaining once more his lost identity and ceasing to be the uneasy ghost of another. He scarcely bothered to speculate about the implacable enemy who had dropped from nowhere into his life; since that life was now behind him one unreal item the more made little difference. For the first time for many months he began to hum a careless lighthearted refrain. Then there stepped out from the shadow of an overhanging oak tree a man with a gun. There was no need to wonder who he might be; the moonlight falling on his white set face revealed a glare of human hate such as Stoner in the ups and downs of his wanderings had never seen before. He sprang aside in a wild effort to break through the hedge that bordered the lane, but the tough branches held him fast. The hounds of Fate had waited for him in those narrow lanes, and this time they were not to be denied.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In \u201cThe Hounds of Fate,\u201d a short story by Saki first published in 1911 in The Chronicles of Clovis, Martin Stoner, a man worn down by despair and exhaustion, wanders aimlessly along a muddy path, believing he is headed toward the sea. The rain drives him to seek shelter in an old manor, where he is received by an elderly man who mistakes him for Tom, the long-absent heir of the house\u2019s mistress, gone for four years. Taking advantage of the misunderstanding, Stoner settles into the manor and enjoys its hospitality. However, he soon discovers that behind the identity he has assumed lies a dark secret whose consequences threaten to overtake him.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":14159,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[584,572,597],"class_list":["post-25469","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-great-britain","tag-horror-en","tag-saki-hector-hugh-munro-en","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":584,"label":"Great Britain"},{"value":572,"label":"Horror"},{"value":597,"label":"Saki (Hector Hugh Munro)"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/06\/Saki-Los-perros-del-destino.jpg",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":584,"name":"Great Britain","slug":"great-britain","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":584,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":49,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":572,"name":"Horror","slug":"horror-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":572,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":127,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":597,"name":"Saki (Hector Hugh Munro)","slug":"saki-hector-hugh-munro-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":597,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":11,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25469","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=25469"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/25469\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/14159"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=25469"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=25469"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=25469"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}