194 THE 



pitch dark and a syce with a lantern was waiting at 

 the kennels. A joyous cry is raised as the Master's 

 footstep is heard, 'Couple up Rattler and Lavish, 

 Random and Redwing.' They might break away in 

 the dark. We count them over. One or two lame 

 or delicate hounds are shut up in the bitch-house 

 and howl dolefully at intervals till our return. The 

 Master swings into the saddle and we feel our way 

 to the road and strike the path along the canal. Then 

 we know where we are, and, discarding the lanterns, 

 drop into a steady hound jog, trusting to the long 

 hours we have spent in the kennel and the attach- 

 ment to us of the riotous crew which without a name 

 among them landed from England a month ago. 

 Hard work, steady exercise, and occasional whipcord 

 have done wonders, but above all some of the most 

 troublesome have developed a liking for the Master, 

 and a word now and then keeps them near his hack. 

 Gradually it becomes lighter. We let the pack 

 stretch out and trot more at ease, but we have to 

 keep a sharp look-out, for there is always the chance 

 of dropping on a wandering jack. We have appointed 

 the third bridge as the meeting-place, and we should 

 not care to disappoint the small but keen band of 

 followers of the hounds. At the appointed spot we 

 find the field. Late comers have little law, for early 



