at his master, inquiringly. "He's
gone for Claydon's," said the master. "Try them up that hedgerow."
Tom did try them up the hedgerow, and in half a minute the hounds
came upon the scent. Then you might see men settling their hats on
their heads, and feeling their feet in the stirrups. The moment for
which they had so long waited had come, and yet there were many
who would now have preferred that the fox should be headed back
into cover. Some had but little confidence in their half-blown
horses;--with many the waiting, though so abused and anathematized,
was in truth more to their taste than the run itself;--with others
the excitement had gone by, and a gallop over a field or two was
necessary before it would be restored. With most men at such a moment
there is a little nervousness, some fear of making a bad start, a
dread lest others should have more of the success of the hunt than
falls to them. But there was a great rush and a mighty bustle as the
hounds made out their game, and Sir William felt himself called upon
to use the rough side of his tongue to more than one delinquent.

And then certain sly old stagers might be seen turning off to the
left, instead of following the course of the game as indicated by the
hounds. They were men who had felt the air as they came out, and knew
that the fox must soon run down wind, whatever he might do for the
first half mile or so,--men who knew also which was the shortest way
to Claydon's by the road. Ah, the satisfaction that there is when
these men are thrown out, and their dead knowledge proved to be of no
avail! If a fox will only run straight, heading from the cover on his
real line, these very sagacious gentlemen seldom come to much honour
and glory.

In the present instance the beast seemed determined to go straight
enough, for the hounds ran the scent along three or four hedgerows in
a line. He had managed to get for himself full ten minutes' start,
and had been able to leave the cover and all his enemies well behind
him before he bethought himself as to his best way to his purposed
destination. And here, from field to field, there were little
hunting-gates at which men crowded lustily, poking and shoving each
other's horses, and hating each other with a bitterness of hatred
which is, I think, known nowhere else. No hunting man ever wants
to jump if he can help it, and the hedges near the gate were not
alluring. A few there were who made lines for themselves, taking t