“Hooick to Challenger! Hooick to Challenger!” now holloas Dicky, as Challenger, after sniffing up the grassy mound of the opposite hedge, proclaims that the fox is over; and Dicky getting his horse short by the head, slips behind the Hatter’s horse’s tail for his old familiar friend the gap in the corner, while the Hatter gathers his horse together to fulfil the honourable obligation of going with the hounds. “C—u—r—m up!” cries he, with an _obligato_ accompaniment of the spur rowels, which the honest beast acknowledges by a clambering flounder up the bank, making the descent on his head on the field side that he nearly executed before. The Hatter’s legs perform a sort of wands of a mill evolution. “Not hurt, I hope!” holloas the Earl, who with Miss de Glancey now lands a little above, and seeing the Hatter rise and shake himself he canters on, giving Miss de Glancey a touch on the elbow, and saying with a knowing look, “_That’s capital!_ get rid of him, leggings and all!” His lordship having now seen the last of his tormentors, has time to look about him a little. “Been a monstrous fine run,” observes he to the lady, as they canter together behind the pace-slackening pack. “Monstrous,” replies the lady, who sees no fun in it at all. “How long has it been?” asks his lordship of Swan, who now shows to the front as a whip-aspiring huntsman is wont to do. “An hour all but five minutes, my lord,” replies the magnifier, looking at his watch. “No—no—an hour ‘zactly, my lord,” adds he, trotting on—restoring his watch to his fob as he goes. “An hour best pace with but one slight check—can’t have come less than twelve miles,” observes his lordship, thinking it over. “Indeed,” replied Miss de Glancey, wishing it was done. “Grand sport fox-hunting, isn’t it?” asked his lordship, edging close up to her. “Charming!” replied Miss de Glancey, feeling her failing frizette. The effervescence of the thing is now about over, and the hounds are reduced to a very plodding pains-taking pace. The day has changed for the worse, and heavy clouds are gathering overhead. Still there is a good holding scent, and as the old saying is, a fox so pressed must stop at last, the few remaining sportsmen begin speculating on his probable destination, one backing him for Cauldwell rocks, another for Fulford woods, a third for the Hawkhurst Hills. “‘Awk’urst ‘ills for a sovereign!” now cries Dicky, hustling his horse, as, having steered the nearly mute pack along Sandy-well banks, Challenger and Sparkler strike a scent on the track leading up to Sorryfold Moor, and go away at an improving pace. “‘Awk’urst ‘ills for a fi’-pun note!” adds he, as the rest of the pack score to cry.