With these words, Tips thrust open an awkward hand-gate, the young one pushing it with his chest, as I felt convinced at the time, far more handily than Tipple Cider would have done, and entered a low swampy pasture patched with rushes, and stretching right away to the further end of the gorse from that where the hounds were put in. Shutting my eyes to the great probability there was of our heading the fox, and resolving to shut my ears to the expostulations that would too surely accompany such a catastrophe, I followed my leader along the pasture, rather in a state of nervous trepidation, in no measure soothed by the view I now obtained of the assembled field, amongst whom I had no difficulty in recognising the well-known riding-habit. Tips sitting down in the saddle, put the four-year-old into a lurching awkward kind of gallop, and I followed him at a venture, Tipple Cider raking and snatching at his bridle in disagreeable exuberance of spirits, as if he were rather short of work. There was a low rail at the extremity of the pasture, fortifying what had once been a gap into the covert itself, a shelter I was most anxious to reach before the eagle-eye of the Earl could spy me out in so untoward a position. I had already made up my mind for a considerable _détour_ which would bring me to a friendly hand-gate (I hate the foolish practice of jumping when hounds are not running), when I saw Tips charge this said rail with the utmost coolness; the four-year-old resenting such an unnecessary demonstration, by turning short round, and kicking out violently at the offending timber. “Give us a lead, Mr. Softly, if it isn’t taking too great a liberty,” said Tips, as quietly as if this cool request were the most natural thing in the world; adding, as a clinching argument, “_You’ve_ on a hunter, _I know_.”