“We lay the pack on here,” he said to Margot. “We shall have a gallop, and I shan’t see the end of it unless I nick in somewhere. You stick to Lionel like wax. If he doesn’t ride at the top of the hunt, I’ll disown him.” Lionel dismounted and loosened his horse’s girths. Margot nibbled at a sandwich, as she waited for her second horse and the pack. Soon the Master appeared with hounds trotting at his heels. The buck had a start of about fifteen minutes. “He’ll need it,” predicted Lionel, as he tossed the little lady on to her fresh mount. “The going is good at first, but if we get to Hasleys’ look out for ruts. Sit well back and go at ’em slow and at right angles. If your gee pecks he may save himself.” “Sounds thrilling!” “A gallop over heather is thrilling. And you’ll be with hounds as long as we’re in the open. I’ve seen thrusters from your country go very pawky over our moors. But your horse can be trusted.” “I trust him and you.” Instantly his thoughts flew to Joyce, who was not a horsewoman. She could not share this tremendous pleasure with him. Nevertheless, his soul sang within him, as he vowed not to be too selfish about sport. Riding home, after this jolly day, he would square things with Margot. The Master waved his hand. Hounds swung upon the line of the deer. “Give ’em time, gentlemen!” With a crash of music they were racing away. A good holding scent in purple heather! The big dog-hounds settled down to their work in rare style. Lionel thrust his feet home into the stirrups, with a last injunction to Margot: “Keep a fair twenty-five yards behind me. We’re in for a fast thing.” Men threw away their cigars; women tossed their sandwiches into the heather. The Master tooted his horn. “Forrard! Forrard!” The Squire, and others of the heavy brigade, fetched a compass, hoping to save distance and horses. Lionel rode a little to the left of hounds. Leaving Island Thorns on his left and Pitt’s woods on his right, the buck headed straight for Letchmore Stream. Here hounds threw up. The Master cast them a quarter of a mile down water, hitting the line again at the spot where the buck took to dry land. “Look how the leading hounds drive,” said Lionel to Margot. “He’s not far ahead. He tarried as long as possible.” The pace was now terrific. An August sun blazed down. The pace was hotter than the sun. “If this lasts,” thought Lionel, “he’ll beat us.” They sped past Hasleys’ over holes and ruts. To the right of Margot one young fellow took an appalling toss, hurled from the saddle like a stone from a catapult, as his horse rolled end over end. He jumped up, shouting cheerily: “I’m all right. Go on!” Another thruster, a stranger, was bogged near Broomy Water. Lionel steered a little to the left, which brought him to the ford. Here the Master had expected the buck to soil. But the leading hounds flung themselves across the stream, picked up the line without a check and raced into Broomy.