“Ware rabbit-holes!” yelled Lionel, looking over his shoulder. Margot’s horse jumped half a dozen cleverly. “Forrard! Forrard!” Out of Broomy on to the heather again, through Milkham, where the buck had passed a half-dried-up stream, and into Roe. Here the quarry soiled. On and on to Buckherd Bottom. Coming through this, Lionel caught a glimpse of ten bucks cantering away across the open, but too far off to determine whether the hunter deer was amongst them or not. The Master divined, happily, that he wasn’t. He picked up his hounds, jogged on steadily, hounds casting themselves well in front of him, and before he had gone three hundred yards, four or five couple began throwing their tongues. “They’ve hit the line again,” said Margot. “Have they?” wondered Lionel, watching the Master. “Some of the old ’uns don’t think so.” Margot heard the Master talking confidentially to Ravager: “That won’t do, old boy, will it?” He roared out to his Whip: “Stop ’em!” So well-broken were the hounds that as soon as the Whip called “Hold hard!” they streamed back to the Master, looking rather ashamed of themselves. He rated them kindly: “Silly beggars! Think you can catch a fresh deer, do you? Let’s see what you can do with a half-cooked ’un.” “Have we lost him?” Margot asked Lionel. “We shall hit him off all right.” The Master held hounds on till they spoke to the true line a hundred yards beyond the false. “They’re away,” said Lionel. “Look at the three- and four-season hounds racing to the front. Oh, you beauties!” The Master touched his horn—one melodious note. “Forrard!” But the buck was too spent to go very far. He soiled again in Handy Cross Pond. Just beyond the Ringwood Road a forest-keeper was seen carrying his gun. “Don’t shoot the deer!” “Ah-h-h! I seed ’un—a gert buck with his jaw out, an’ not gone six minutes, seemin’ly. Turnin’ left-handed, zur, to Ridley. There’s a herd o’ bucks afore ’un, too.” “Forrard on!” Ravager and Whistler, who had been leading, now gave pride of place to Welladay and Armlet. Old hounds know full well when their quarry is sinking. The gallant buck turned again, right-handed, and swung between Picket Post and Burley upon an open plain where hounds got a view of him. They coursed him, running mute, for nearly a mile, and at last rolled him over in the open. A ten-mile point from where the pack was laid on and eleven from the couch where he was roused. Time—one hour and forty minutes! “A clinker,” said Lionel to Margot. After the last rites had been swiftly performed, the Master took Lionel aside. “Who is the little lady? She went like a bird.” When he heard her name he laughed and winked knowingly. Evidently the Squire had been talking indiscreetly. The Master chuckled and winked again as he said: “This deer’s head, set up by Rowland Ward, would make a corkin’ wedding present—what?” Hounds went back to kennels. * * * * *