“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 hunter such as one wants in the Midlands.  Anyhow, it was too much for Parson Geddes’ seventeen-hand bay, and though he tried the Irish trick—­for he was a rare keen sportsman—­of running up the hills by his horse’s head, it was all to no use, and he had to give it up.  So then there were only the huntsman, the whip, and Wat Danbury—­all going strong.

“But the country got worse and worse and the hills were steeper and more thickly covered in heather and bracken.  The horses were over their hocks all the time, and the place was pitted with rabbit-holes; but the hounds were still streaming along, and the riders could not afford to pick their steps.  As they raced down one slope, the hounds were always flowing up the opposite one, until it looked like that game where the one figure in falling makes the other one rise.