“Well we had a nice bit of schooling, anyhow, and, it’s been a real educational day for the hounds,” said Freddy, turning in his saddle to look at the fires of the frosty sunset.  “I’m glad they had it.  I think we’re in for a go of hard weather.  I don’t know what I should have done only for you, old chap.  Patsey’s gone all to pieces:  it’s my belief he’s been on the drink this whole week, and where he gets it—­”

“Hullo!  Hold hard!” interrupted Mr. Taylour.  “What’s Governor after?”

They were riding along a grass-grown farm road outside the Craffroe demesne; the grey wall made a sharp bend to the right, and just at the corner Governor had begun to gallop, with his nose to the ground and his stern up.  The rest of the pack joined him in an instant, and all swung round the corner and were lost to sight.

“It’s a fox!” exclaimed Freddy, snatching up his reins; “they always cross into the demesne just here!”

By the time he and Mr. Taylour were round the corner the hounds had checked fifty yards ahead, and were eagerly hunting to and fro for the lost scent, and a little further down the old road they saw a woman running away from them.

“Hi, ma’am!” bellowed Freddy, “did you see the fox?”

The woman made no answer.

“Did you see the fox?” reiterated Freddy in still more stentorian tones.  “Can’t you answer me?”

The woman continued to run without even looking behind her.

The laughter of Mr. Taylour added fuel to the fire of Freddy’s wrath:  he put the spurs into Mayboy, dashed after the woman, pulled his horse across the road in front of her, and shouted his question point-blank at her, coupled with a warm inquiry as to whether she had a tongue in her head.

The woman jumped backwards as if she were shot, staring in horror at Freddy’s furious little face, then touched her mouth and ears and began to jabber inarticulately and talk on her fingers.

The laughter of Mr. Taylour was again plainly audible.

“Sure that’s a dummy woman, sir,” explained the butcher’s nephew, hurrying up.  “I think she’s one of them tinkers that’s outside the town.”  Then with a long screech, “Look!  Look over!  Tiger, have it!  Hulla, hulla, hulla!”

Tiger was already over the wall and into the demesne, neck and neck with Fly, the smith’s half-bred greyhound; and in the wake of these champions clambered the Craffroe Pack, with strangled yelps of ardour, striving and squealing and fighting horribly in the endeavour to scramble up the tall smooth face of the wall.

“The gate!  The gate further on!” yelled Freddy, thundering down the turfy road, with the earth flying up in lumps from his horse’s hoofs.

Mr. Taylour’s pony gave two most uncomfortable bucks and ran away; even Patsey Crimmeen and the black mare shared an unequal thrill of enthusiasm, as the latter, wholly out of hand, bucketed after the pony.