Then there appeared another field of hunters, first one man leading them, then others following, and after them the first ruck and then the crowd.  It was apparent to all who knew anything that two packs had joined.  These were the Hitchiners, as the rival sportsmen would call them, and this was the Hitchin Hunt, with Mr. Fairlawn, their master.  Mr. Fairlawn was also an old man, popular, no doubt, in his own country, but by no means beloved by Mr. Harkaway.  Mr. Harkaway used to declare how Fairlawn had behaved very badly about certain common coverts about thirty years ago, when the matter had to be referred to a committee of masters.  No one in these modern days knew aught of the quarrel, or cared.  The men of the two hunts were very good friends, unless they met under the joint eyes of the two masters, and then they were supposed to be bound to hate each other.  Now the two packs were mixed together, and there was only one fox between them.

The fox did not trouble them long.  He could hardly have saved himself from one pack, but very soon escaped from the fangs of the two.  Each hound knew that his neighbor hound was a stranger, and, in scrutinizing the singularity of the occurrence, lost all the power of hunting.  In ten minutes there were nearly forty couples of hounds running hither and thither, with two huntsmen and four whips swearing at them with strange voices, and two old gentlemen giving orders each in opposition to the other.  Then each pack was got together, almost on the same ground, and it was necessary that something should be done.  Mr. Harkaway waited to see whether Mr. Fairlawn would ride away quickly to his own country.  He would not have spoken to Mr. Fairlawn if he could have helped it.  Mr. Fairlawn was some miles away from his country.  He must have given up the day for lost had he simply gone away.  But there was another covert a mile off, and he thought that one of his hounds had “shown a line,”—­or said that he thought so.

Now, it is well known that you may follow a hunted fox through whatever country he may take you to, if only your hounds are hunting him continuously.  And one hound for that purpose is as good as thirty, and if a hound can only “show a line” he is held to be hunting.  Mr. Fairlawn was quite sure that one of his hounds had been showing a line, and had been whipped off it by one of Mr. Harkaway’s men.  The man swore that he had only been collecting his own hounds.  On this plea Mr. Fairlawn demanded to take his whole pack into Greasegate Wood,—­the very covert that Mr. Harkaway had been about to draw.  “I’m d——­d if you do!” said Mr. Harkaway, standing, whip in hand, in the middle of the road, so as to prevent the enemy’s huntsman passing by with his hounds.  It was afterward declared that Mr. Harkaway had not been heard to curse and swear for the last fifteen years.  “I’m d——­d if I don’t!” said Mr. Fairlawn, riding up to him.  Mr. Harkaway was ten years the older man, and looked as though he had much less of fighting power.  But no one saw him quail or give an inch.  Those who watched his face declared that his lips were white with rage and quivered with passion.