One day in mid-winter, as the weather was very mild and open, I was lying on the rough grass field that I have spoken of which borders a flat stretch of moorland.  On this moorland in summer grew tall ferns, but now these had died and been broken down by the wind.  Suddenly I woke up from my sleep to see a number of men walking and riding towards me.

They were tenants and others who, although the real coursing season had not yet begun in our neighbourhood, had been asked by Grampus to come to try their greyhounds upon his land.  Those of them who walked for the most part held two long, lean dogs on a string, while one or two carried dead hares.  They were dreadful-looking hares that seemed to have been bitten all over; at least their coats were wet and broken.  I shivered at the sight of them, feeling sure that I was going to be put to some new kind of torture.

Besides the men on foot were those on horseback, among whom I recognised the Red-faced Man and my enemy, the dreadful Tom.  Most of the others were people called farmers, who seemed very happy and excited and from time to time drank something out of little bottles which they passed to each other.  Giles was not there.  Now I know that this was because he hated coursing, which killed down hares.  Hares, he thought, out to be shot, not coursed.

Whilst I watched, wondering what to do, there was a shout of “There she goes!” and all the long dogs began to pull at their strings.  Off the necks of two of them the collars seemed to fall, and away they leapt pursuing a hare.  The men on the horses galloped after them, but the men on foot remained where they were.

Now I was afraid to get up and run lest they should loose the other dogs on me, so I lay still, till presently I saw the hare coming back towards me, followed by the two dogs whose noses almost touched its tail.  It was exhausted and tried to twist and spring away to the right.  But as it did so one of the dogs caught it in its mouth and bit it till it died.

“That was a rotten hare,” said Tom, who cantered up just then, “it gave no course at all.”

“Yes,” puffed Grampus.  “Hope the next one will show better sport.”

“Hope so too,” answered Tom, “especially as it is Jack and Jill’s turn to be slipped, and they are the best greyhounds for twenty miles round.”

Then the Red-faced Man gave some orders and Jack and Jill were brought forward by the man whose business it was to slip the dogs.  One of them was black and one yellow; I think Jack was the black one—­a dreadful, sneaking-looking beast with a white tip to its tail, which ended in a sort of curl.

“Forward now,” said Grampus, “and go slow.  There’s sure to be another puss or two in this rough grass.”

Next second I was up and away, and before you could count twelve Jack and Jill were after me.  I saw them standing on their hind legs straining at the cord.  Then the collars fell from them and they leapt forward like the light.  My thought was to get back to the wood, which was about a minute’s run behind me, but I did not dare to turn and head for it because of the long line of people through which I must pass if I tried to do so.  So I ran straight for the moorland, hoping to turn there and reach the wood on its other side, although this meant a long journey.