“Well, I will say for you you don’t funk,” said Kate consolingly; “and I suppose all sailors ride like monkeys.—­There are the hounds going on; we are only just in time.”

Coquettish Kate was soon surrounded.  If she rode fair and didn’t cross men at their fences, still less did she want assistance at any practicable leap.  “Childe Harold,” too, was indifferent to a lead; so, beholden to none, she rode her own line, and, with her merry smile and gay tongue, with the whole field, from the gallant master to the hard-riding farmer, there were few greater favourites than Harry’s cousin Kate.

The universal theme at the cover-side was, of course, the declaration of war; but even that absorbing subject sunk to silence as the first low whimper, taken up more confidently by hound after hound, proclaimed that poor Reynard was being bustled through the underwood.

A relieved smile played over the features of the owner of the cover, and “Always a fox in Beechwood” came approvingly from the master’s lips as he crashed out of the spinny.  Kate’s gauntleted hand was held up warningly, for the “Childe” was apt to let out one hind leg in excitement.  Then there was a screech from an urchin in a tree, and they were away with a straight running fox pointing to Redbank Bushes, eight miles off as the crow flies.

Not much of the run was Harry Dutton destined to see that day; his presumed mission was to stick on and follow Kate, who thought no more about him once they were away.  He had flopped over the first fence without a mistake; but coming on a bit of road the old horse faltered, a few yards more he was dead lame.  Harry jumped off, and found a shoe gone.  Dashwood had a spare one he remembered, and there was a blacksmith, not half a mile distant.  He looked round—­no sign of him of course; he was sailing away with a good start, fields ahead, in that contented ecstasy that stops not for friend or foe.  There was nothing for it but to plod on to the forge, trusting to nick in later in the day.  As the shoe had to be made, delay was inevitable.  Dutton lit a cigar to while away the term of durance, and was disconsolately looking out at the door of the smithy, when he observed one of the Bromley grooms trotting smartly down the road.

He hailed the man, who touched his hat with alacrity.  “I was riding to find you, sir; his Lordship has sent your letters.”

The train was late, and the post had not arrived before they had been obliged to start that morning.  He tore open a large blue official envelope, “On Her Majesty’s Service,” and read his appointment to H.M.S.  “Druid,” one of the Baltic fleet.

Harry stood intent a minute, with compressed lips, then signed to the groom to give him his horse.

“I have got letters for Colonel Dashwood and Mr. Hobart, too, sir.”

“Well, ‘Figaro’ will be shod in five minutes.  But you won’t catch them this side of the Bushes; they were going straight for them half an hour ago.”