nd the wood instead of going through, were coming hard over the
fields upon the left; but Danbury, with the hunt servants, had a clear
lead, and they never lost it.

"Two of the field got on terms with them--Parson Geddes on a big
seventeen-hand bay which he used to ride in those days, and Squire
Foley, who rode as a feather-weight, and made his hunters out of cast
thoroughbreds from the Newmarket sales; but the others never had a
look-in from start to finish, for there was no check and no pulling, and
it was clear cross-country racing from start to finish. If you had
drawn a line right across the map with a pencil you couldn't go
straighter than that fox ran, heading for the South Downs and the sea,
and the hounds ran as surely as if they were running to view, and yet
from the beginning no one ever saw the fox, and there was never a hallo
forrard to tell them that he had been spied. This, however, is not so
surprising, for if you've been over that line of country you will know
that there are not very many people about.

"There were six of them then in the front row--Parson Geddes, Squire
Foley, the huntsman, two whips, and Wat Danbury, who had forgotten all
about his head and the doctor by this time, and had not a thought for
anything but the run. All six were galloping just as hard as they could
lay hoofs to the ground. One of the whips dropped back, however, as
some of the hounds were tailing off, and that brought them down to five.
Then Foley's thoroughbred strained herself, as these slim-legged,
dainty-fetlocked thoroughbreds will do when the going is rough, and he
had to take a back seat. But the other four were still going strong,
and they did four or five miles down the river flat at a rasping pace.
It had been a wet winter, and the waters had been out a little time
before, so there was a deal of sliding and splashing; but by the time
they came to the bridge the whole field was out of sight, and these four
had the hunt to themselves.

"The fox had crossed the bridge--for foxes do not care to swim a chilly
river any more than humans do--and from that point he had streaked away
southward as hard as he could tear. It is broken country, rolling
heaths, down one slope and up another, and it's hard to say whether the
up or the down is the more trying for the horses. This sort of
switchback work is all right for a cobby, short-backed, short-legged
little horse, but it is killing work for a big, long-striding h