THROWN OUT. 127 



find a way through. There is a stream, evidently ford- 

 able, by the marks of many horses' hoofs, and Village 

 Lass paddles through, landing again in a spreading 

 meadow. 



I look to the left, and see nothing ; to the right, ex- 

 pecting and finding the same result. Where are the 

 hounds, and where the field r A couple of rustics are 

 looking hard ; one is pointing off in the distance, and to 

 them I gallop. 



" Seen the hounds ? " I ask. 



" No, sir ; but we seen the fox ! " one of them replies. 

 " He come out by that there oak-tree, run along the 

 ditch, and jumped out by that bush, and went across 

 the corner of the field along that hedge, sir. Fine big 

 fox he was, too," both of them declare in breathless 

 haste. 



"A dog-fox, was he r " I ask. 



" I don't know, sir — warn't near enough to see ; but 

 he was a rare big 'un," the first speaker replies. And 

 so I sit still, expecting every moment to hear the voices 

 of the hounds, and the familiar sound of their passage 

 through the crackling undergrowth. 



The rustics continue their way, leaving me alone, 

 waiting and listening. Where are the hounds ? I wonder, 

 and the query is unsatisfied. Where on earth are those 

 hounds r Nothing happens to inform me. Where the 

 deuce can those hounds have got to r I presently feel 

 justified in inquiring, while the mare pricks her ears as 

 if she would help if she could, but cannot. 



