they don't look to it, the hares will be round the world and
catching them up."

"Hi! Mister puppy, you're going wrong; they went t'other way."

"Shut up!" cried Dick.

"Go and give your pigs their dinner," shouted Heathcote.

Coote contented himself with running through the village with his tongue
in his cheek, and in another three minutes the trio were beyond earshot
and shaking the dust of Steg from their feet.

"How many miles now?" asked Coote, with a fine effort to appear
unconcerned at the answer, which he put down in his own mind at six or
seven miles.

"Three and a half, about--put it on, you fellows."

It was a long trot along the springy turf outside Swilford Wood. Once
or twice the scent turned in and got doubtful among the underwood, but
it came out again just as often, and presently turned off on to the
Heath.

Our heroes ploughed honestly through the bracken and gorse which tangled
their feet and scratched their bare shins at every step. That mile over
the Heath was the most trying yet. The hares seemed to have picked out
the very cruellest track they could find; and when, presently, the
"Firm" caught sight of the ruthless little patches of paper going
straight up the side of Welkin Beacon, Coote fairly cried for quarter
and announced he must sit down.

His companions, though they would not have liked to make the suggestion
themselves, were by no means inexorable to the appeal.

"Why, we've hardly started yet," said Dick, throwing himself down on the
ground; "you're a nice fellow to begin to want a rest!"

"Only just started!" gasped Coote; "I never ran so far in my life."

"We came that last bit pretty well, considering the ground," said
Heathcote, anxious to make the halt as justifiable as possible.

"I wonder where the hares are now?" said Dick, rather pensively.

"Back at Templeton, perhaps," said Heathcote, "having iced ginger-beer,
or turning into the 'Tub.'"

"Shut up, Georgie," said Dick, with a wince. "What's the use of talking
about iced ginger-beer out here?"

They lay some minutes, each dreading the first suggestion to move.
Coote feigned to have dropped asleep, and Heathcote became intensely
interested in the anatomy of a thistle.

Dick was the only one who could not honestly settle down, and the
dreaded summons, when at last it came, came in his voice:--

"You lazy beggars," cried he, starting up, "get up, can't you? and come
on."

Rip Van Winkle never slept more