EARLY MORNING ON THE VELD 111 



on the forehead tells its own tale, he is very soon in the 

 saddle again. 



For twenty-five minutes we have been riding at almost 

 steeplechase pace, and the quarry is now running in view, 

 for the veld here and for a couple of miles ahead has been 

 fired, and not a vestige of herbage is there to be seen. 



" Forrard ! forrard ! forrard ! " shrieks Tom as he 

 cheers on the eager, straining pack, fearful that they may 

 not gain the blood they thirst for, and so richly deserve, 

 for he, with the experienced eye of a huntsman, knows 

 full well that if once the buck gains yonder boulder- 

 strewn kopje, towards which it is heading, the run will 

 prove bloodless. No horse ever yet foaled could find 

 footing up the face of those steep, rocky hills, and the 

 hot rays of the sun will already have dissipated what little 

 scent might have been found when the scant vegetation 

 of the hills was drenched with dew. 



The Boer homestead is now but a mere white speck on 

 the sun-scorched plain, for hounds are running at a pace 

 they seldom, if ever, showed in their native country. 

 Not the sign of a check has occurred since they left covert, 

 nor, with the exception of the stone wall, have they met 

 with a single obstacle to hinder them. By Jove ! the 

 buck is heading towards the reed-fringed pan of water 

 which lies shimmering in the bright rays of the sun like 

 a sheet of molten silver. Yes, in he plunges, and now it is 

 a case of sit down and ride and the devil take the hind- 

 most. " Forrard ! forrard ! forrard ! " again shrieks 

 the huntsman, as he rides close to the sterns of the hounds 

 as though his Satanic Majesty were behind him. 



Headlong we go, each man striving to outride his 

 fellow, heedless of the fact that his mount is sobbing out 



