losopher assures him that
he has not in truth been near Morley Hall; and when the unfortunate one
makes an attempt to argue, puts him down thoroughly. "All I can say is,
you couldn't have been there and be here too at this moment. Morley Hall
is a mile and a half to our right, and now they're coming round to the
Linney. He'll go into the little wood there, and as there isn't as much
as a nutshell open for him, they'll kill him there. It'll have been a
tidy little thing, but not very fast. I've hardly been out of a trot
yet, but we may as well move on now." Then he breaks into an easy canter
by the side of the road, while the unfortunates, who have been rolling
among the heavy-ploughed ground in the early part of the day, make vain
efforts to ride by his side. They keep him, however, in sight, and are
comforted; for he is a man with a character, and knows what he is about.
He will never be utterly lost, and as long as they can remain in his
company they will not be subjected to that dreadful feeling of absolute
failure which comes upon an inexperienced sportsman when he finds
himself quite alone, and does not know which way to turn himself.

A man will not learn to ride after this fashion in a day, nor yet in
a year. Of all fashions of hunting it requires, perhaps, the most
patience, the keenest observation, the strongest memory, and the
greatest efforts of intellect. But the power, when achieved, has its
triumph; it has its respect, and it has its admirers. Our friend, while
he was guiding the unfortunates on the road, knew his position, and rode
for a while as though he were a chief of men. He was the chief of men
there. He was doing what he knew how to do, and was not failing. He had
made no boasts which stern facts would afterwards disprove. And when
he rode up slowly to the wood-side, having from a distance heard the
huntsman's whoop that told him of the fox's fate, he found that he had
been right in every particular. No one at that moment knows the line
they have all ridden as well as he knows it. But now, among the crowd,
when men are turning their horses' heads to the wind, and loud questions
are being asked, and false answers are being given, and the ambitious
men are congratulating themselves on their deeds, he sits by listening
in sardonic silence. "Twelve miles of ground !" he says to himself,
repeating the words of some valiant youngster; "if it's eight, I'll eat
it." And then when he hears, for he is all ear