272 HARE-HUNTING AND HARRIERS 



We point now for the rich pastures between Pevensey 

 and the sea, leaving Wall's End on the left, and then 

 comes a distant holloa. It is from the very edge of the 

 " Crumbles," a vast expanse of flat shingle, from 

 which the sea has, centuries ago, receded. The holloa 

 is from a coastguard ; it tells us the plain tale that 

 our hare is indeed hard put to it, or she would scarcely 

 have resorted to that last shift of the unhappy chase, 

 a run over this strange, trackless, and usually scentless 

 stretch of shore line. The coastguard has seen her, 

 truly enough, and tells us she is very beat and going 

 slowly. Excellent news, indeed ! The question is 

 whether the " Crumbles " will to-day give us any 

 scent at aU. 



That issue is soon clear enough. There is some 

 scent, for a wonder ; and, albeit at a much slower 

 pace, hounds continue to hold the line. We struggle 

 through the waste of pebbles, as best we can, for half 

 a mile, and then, suddenly, the leading hounds, topping 

 a ridge of shingle towards the sea, rush on with renewed 

 energy and a wondrous clamour. They have a view, 

 undoubtedly. We scale the little ascent and there, 

 one hundred and fifty yards away, witness the last 

 shift of the failing hare. Hounds are now close at 

 her scut. She turns, twists, and dodges, with a courage 

 and a perseverance surely deserving of a kindlier fate, 

 and then all is over. She dies ! she dies ! as Somer- 

 vile would have had it, in his blank verse ; and, dis- 

 appearing amid the final worry of the pack, we see the 

 little brown form no more. Tired limbs are forgotten. 

 With one impulse we rush up to the scene, as fast as 

 legs can carry us, just in time to rescue the stif^ and 

 somewhat battered quarry from the jaws of her 

 pursuers. She is, of course, quite dead. The usual 

 triumphant cries are raised ; the huntsman sounds 



