“Fair capture!” bawled one of the judges, and Dawson, dropping out, sat down until he could get his wind back.

Within the next twenty minutes four more of the hares fell into the maws of the hounds.

Five captures!  That was fine.  Only two more needed, and less than two miles to cover.

The hares were, at this time, again out of sight in the woods ahead.  But Captain Dick, having saved his wind well, now put on a slightly better spurt and jogged ahead, full of the purpose of capturing his second hare.  One of the “catches” was already recorded to his credit.

“There’s one of the hares,” Dick flashed to himself, as he caught an indistinct glimpse of a sweater and a moving pair of legs ahead.  “He seems to be losing his wind, too—–­that fellow.”

In a minute more Dick gave another gasp of discovery.

“It’s Fred Ripley.  I suppose it will be bitter medicine for him, if I make the catch,” thought the young captain of the hounds.

Though he was too manly, too good a sportsman to allow malice to creep in, Prescott certainly did do his best to overtake the lagging Fred.

Gradually, the young captain left the hares behind.  But Badger, who was an easy runner, forged ahead so as to keep the leading hound in full sight.

Hearing some one running behind him, Fred Ripley glanced backward over his shoulder.

“The mucker!” gritted the lawyer’s son.  “He mustn’t catch me—–­he shan’t!”

Yet vainly did Ripley try to put on more speed.  He kept it up for a few yards, then knew that he was failing.  That ill-advised anger before the start was surely telling on him now.  Dick still kept forward, gaining a yard or so every few minutes.

“Keep back!  Don’t you dare touch me, you mucker!” hissed Fred sharply over his shoulder.

“Mucker?” retorted Prescott.  “I’ll pay you for that!”

At a bound he covered the distance, throwing first one arm, then the other, fairly around Ripley.  Fred fought furiously to break the clasp, but was so winded that he couldn’t.

“Let go of me!  Your touch soils!” he cried, hoarsely.

But Dick still kept his hold, counting:  “—–­twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen!”

“Fair capture!” rumbled Ben Badger.

The other hounds, or their leaders, were stripping by now.  Dick, at the judge’s words, loosed his hold on Fred.

“You cur!” snarled Fred. Then, summoning all his remaining strength, Ripley hauled off and struck astounded Dick on the face, sending the captain of the hounds to the ground.

“Take that, mucker!” shouted the assailant.

Those of the hounds who had not shot by, halted in sheer amazement.

Like a flash Dick was on his feet, his eyes flashing, cheeks flushing crimson.

“Go on, hounds, go on!” he shouted.  “I can take care of this one disgrace to Gridley H.S.!”