en in it. To Larry,
seated on his stout, bay cob, with a heart banging against his ribs,
and a soul absorbed into a single supplication, had come, suddenly and
beautifully, the answer to prayer, the ineffable spectacle of a large
and lovely fox, sliding quietly away, at the right place, at the right
moment. Life could offer Larry no more; not then, at all events.

"_My_ coverts--_my_ fox!"

Not many boys of sixteen, enthusiasts, endowed with just that touch of
the poetic temperament that can set the brain reeling, could know a
more wondrous moment.

Then to see Cousin Dick, blazing and splendid, charging out of the
wood, "like the man on the red horse in Revelation," as Christian said
afterwards--(Christian had sneaked away from Charles, the coachman,
and had followed Larry)--with the hounds flashing around and ahead of
him, and Cottingham's rasping "Forrad! Forrad!" from the wood behind,
like the blast of a bellows upon flames!

Larry had been past speech when that apocalyptic vision had
materialised in response to his halloa. He had waved his hat and
cheered the hounds to the line of the fox, but it had been
unnecessary; they had not had an instant's uncertainty, and had taken
hold on their own account without reference to anyone.

That the hold taken by the hounds was a firm and assured one was due,
not only to their own virtues, but also to the fact that where the fox
had broken, a tract of turf bog met the wood, and carried a scent of
entire efficiency. What, however, it was incapable of carrying were
the horses. The hounds, uttering their ecstasy in that gorgeous chorus
of harmonious discordance called Full Cry, sped across the bog like a
flock of seagulls; but for the riders, a narrow track between deep
ditches left by the turf-cutters for their carts, was the sole hope,
and a string of horses, galloping in single file, was soon following
hard on the heels of the Master. Foremost of them all were Christian
and Larry, filled with an elation beyond the power of words to convey.
The hounds were holding steadily right-handed across the bog, and were
ever widening the distance between them and the riders, but it was
enough for these two children to be able to keep their proud place,
next after the Master, and to know that no one, not even Cottingham,
could deprive them of it. It may gravely be questioned if Tommy, the
stout bay cob, and Harry, the residue of a hunt horse, appreciated a
position to which they wer