The Game Itself 33^ 



rider stands dripping on the bank, while his horse is going 

 back the way he came. Another is off his horse and up to 

 his shoulders, wading in the stream, his hat floating away on 

 the current. Still another's horse braced his feet and bolted 

 on the bank, sending his rider head first into the brook, like 

 a boy from a spring-board. 



In the meantime hounds have hit off the line again, and 

 away we go down-wind. Renard has come to the conclu- 

 sion that, plan or no plan, the thing for him to do is to save 

 his brush. Now he will go down-wind only so far as to 

 keep the hounds in hearing. The end is nearing. The 

 older hounds are driving to the front. Now is the time for 

 one to ride. Now comes the trying time, for when 

 Renard is nearly beaten then his cunning and craft are 

 brightest. 



A check? No — yes! All but three hounds. Not a 

 moment is to be lost. Now must the huntsman ride ! A 

 sinking fox and a dying scent are before him. He urges 

 forward, leaving the whippers-in to come on with the pack. 

 Check again. The pack overtake the huntsman. Trump- 

 eter — where is Trumpeter? Bless that hound! He has 

 hit off the line with a short turn to the right. There goes 

 our fox, trailing his brush across yonder knoll. Now, lads, 

 ride! One more field! *'Hie! Hie! Hie!" shouts 

 every one, galloping over the knoll and down a gradual 

 slope. The fox is in one field, the hounds in the next, and 

 the riders that are left in the third. " Hie ! Hie! Hie ! " 



Can Renard make his point, which seems to be a covert 

 several fields farther on ? On, hounds ! That covert con- 

 tains an open earth. Our horses can no longer answer to 



