THE NOBLE SCIENCE. 177 



deserve him, any how/' says the huntsman, " for they 

 are all doing their best for him." " We will kill him, as 

 sure as he has a brush," shouts the master, in ecstasy of 

 confidence ; " only pray give them room, gentlemen ; 

 don't crowd upon them, if they slacken." *' Luton Park 

 is his point, depend on't," adds one who knows the line 

 of every fox (and would be credited if he did not almost 

 invariably predict the reverse of the one taken) ; " but, 

 no, confound the ploughs! he must have been headed by 

 those infernal plough-teams." " What business have 

 they to plough on hunting days ?" exclaims young Rapid, 

 with a blessing upon the causes of a check, just as he 

 had got a lead, and had determined to keep it : sure 

 enough, they have thrown up under the noses of the 

 clod-breaking cattle. It is a moment of doubt, of no 

 little confusion, for people will talk ; the ploughboys can 

 scarcely manage their excited Dobbins ; the hounds are all 

 sixes and sevens, and, amidst the general cry of " headed 

 back to a certainty," and the unrestrained opinion as to 

 the exact direction in which each man thinks he has infal- 

 libly gone, the huntsman has enough to do to maintain 

 his composure and presence of mind. Now for his 

 head-piece ; now for a moment's thought. The field is 

 ten or fifteen acres in extent ; the furrow, five hundred 

 yards in length. Here are the plough-teams, now causing 

 confusion enough ; but where were they when the fox 

 was at this point ? A moment's consideration will tell 



