“‘We have it all to ourselves,’ said he.

“’Yes, sir, we’ve shook on the lot of ’em this time,’ said old Joe Clarke.  ’If we get this fox it’s worth while ’aving ‘im skinned an’ stuffed, for ’e’s a curiosity ‘e is.’

“‘It’s the fastest run I ever had in my life!’ cried Danbury.

“’And the fastest that ever I ‘ad, an’ that means more,’ said the old huntsman.  ’But what licks me is that we’ve never ’ad a look at the beast.  ‘E must leave an amazin’ scent be’ind ’im when these ’ounds can follow ’im like this, and yet none of us have seen ’im when we’ve ’ad a clear ‘alf mile view in front of us.’

“‘I expect we’ll have a view of him presently,’ said Danbury; and in his mind he added, ‘at least, I shall,’ for the huntsman’s horse was gasping as it ran, and the white foam was pouring down it like the side of a washing-tub.

“They had followed the hounds on to one of the side tracks which led out of the main drive, and that divided into a smaller track still, where the branches switched across their faces as they went, and there was barely room for one horse at a time.  Wat Danbury took the lead, and he heard the huntsman’s horse clumping along heavily behind him, while his own mare was going with less spring than when she had started.  She answered to a touch of his crop or spur, however, and he felt that there was something still left to draw upon.  And then he looked up, and there was a heavy wooden stile at the end of the narrow track, with a lane of stiff young saplings leading down to it, which was far too thick to break through.  The hounds were running clear upon the grassland on the other side, and you were bound either to get over that stile or lose sight of them, for the pace was too hot to let you go round.

“Well, Wat Danbury was not the lad to flinch, and at it he went full split, like a man who means what he is doing.  She rose gallantly to it, rapped it hard with her front hoof, shook him on to her withers, recovered herself, and was over.  Wat had hardly got back into his saddle when there was a clatter behind him like the fall of a woodstack, and there was the top bar in splinters, the horse on its belly, and the huntsman on hands and knees half a dozen yards in front of him.  Wat pulled up for an instant, for the fall was a smasher; but he saw old Joe spring to his feet and get to his horse’s bridle.  The horse staggered up, but the moment it put one foot in front of the other, Wat saw that it was hopelessly lame—­a slipped shoulder and a six weeks’ job.  There was nothing he could do, and Joe was shouting to him not to lose the hounds, so off he went again, the one solitary survivor of the whole hunt.  When a man finds himself there, he can retire from fox-hunting, for he has tasted the highest which it has to offer.  I remember once when I was out with the Royal Surrey—­but I’ll tell you that story afterwards.