The Game Itself 329 



one, a steeplechaser, just fast enough to be beaten between 

 the flags ; and he has it in for two or three fellow-riders, 

 no doubt, who have been leading the field. They are what 

 the Master calls " threshing scoundrels." Blackhorse 

 keeps on, and as he moves forward others follow — there 

 are always plenty to follow a foolish lead — till, just as we 

 expected, out comes a scolding from the Master: *' Hold 

 hard there, Blackhorse \ Hold hard, I say ! I beg of 

 you, gentlemen, give the fox a chance." They stop where 

 they are. Now our Master, whom we saw all smiles and 

 good cheer at the meet, is getting red in the face. He 

 wishes to the bottom of his heart the fox would break 

 north and leave these fellows hopelessly behind. Between 

 you and me, dear reader, I think this is one reason why 

 the huntsman does what he can to make foxes break in the 

 direction unexpected by the hunting-to-ride men. 



A third-rate horse-dealer who has timed himself just 

 right comes dashing up. He has not come by way of the 

 lane as all the other riders have, but jumps his horse into 

 it, and, with a loud shout to some other rider, succeeds in 

 calling every one's attention to his arrival. **What do you 

 think of this one?" he inquires, loud enough for all to 

 hear. "The best one I ever owned !" 



Some late-comers and farmers join the group, the latter on 

 "green uns " for their first introduction to hounds. They 

 follow for a few miles where the leaders have knocked the 

 top rails ofl^, and then retire. 



Meantime the hounds have hunted through the covert 

 and are heard returning. Hark ! A challenge ! 



No ; it is only a new-entry hound giving tongue to 



