RUNS WITH FOOT-HARRIERS 265 



hare presently slips out of sight, hounds are brought 

 to their noses, and we make the best of our way after 

 them. 



For two miles this stout hare keeps her face pointed 

 straight for the south-east and the sea. We climb the 

 down, trot some way along the top, sink another deep 

 valley, and then the hare turns right-handed. Scent 

 is, up to this point, first-rate, and hounds carry a 

 marvellously good head, but there are indications that 

 this excellent state of affairs may not continue. The 

 mist is clearing, and there are gleams of sunshine. 

 Belle Toute lighthouse shows at length, clear and spot- 

 less white against the green turf of the cliff edge. 

 And, looking away down Birling Gap yonder, a coast- 

 ing barque, with all plain sail set for the faint breeze, 

 creeps out of the sea mist. Another lift of the white 

 veil, and a tramp steamer ploughs clumsily eastward 

 through the grey-green sea. But after an instant's 

 check at the sharp angle of the hare's sudden turn 

 hounds race away again. It is clear from their direc- 

 tion that the hare is ringing back to her head-quarters. 

 A judicious line across the centre of the circle, which 

 our quarry appears to be bent on making, enables us 

 toiling footmen — those of us who are really running, 

 no joke with harriers on these open downs — to nick 

 in again close to the tail of the pack. Away we go 

 again full cry through the valley from which the hare 

 got up ; away over down and into valley as before. 



But now the change of temperature has wrought its 

 inevitable result, and scent begins to fail consider- 

 ably. Slow hunting is to be the fashion, and the 

 hare gains some temporary respite. She needs it, 

 surely, by now ; for fifty minutes and more she has been 

 rattled over the hills in a way that few of her kind — 

 even the stoutest down hare ever bred — can stand 



