“Confound the girl! what does she mean by it?” said the humiliated swain to himself, as the hounds moved off towards the gorse. He felt a little disgusted, and _not_ a little irritated: just in the humour that makes a man ready for a bit of excitement rather keener than ordinary. He thought he had never felt _so like riding_ in his life before! With the natural instinct of one who knew himself capable of going in the first flight, the observant Sawyer proceeded to scan narrowly such of the surrounding sportsmen as looked to him like “meaning mischief.” Out of a hundred riders it was not so difficult as might be supposed to pick a proportion of flyers, and the proportion, as my hunting readers will not dispute, was little over ten per cent. Shall I name them? Shall I add ninety enterprising and energetic gentlemen to the list of my mortal enemies? Heaven forbid that I should do anything so invidious and ill-advised! Mr. Sawyer did not know them, and why should I? Each of the hundred, doubtless, believed himself one of the chosen ten. I fancy that every man who goes out hunting thinks he only wants an opportunity to show his back to the rest of the field. I fancy that when the opportunity _does_ come, he lets it slip in hopes of a better, and that no one attributes to want of nerve, horsemanship, or common sense, that failure, on which it would be no bad investment to offer each equestrian nine to one! Well, everybody has an equal chance on a fine scenting day, when the fox has slipped quietly away, by good fortune only seen by a countryman, with a quinsy, who couldn’t halloo to save his life. When the two or three couple of leading hounds have flashed a hundred yards or so over his line, thus enabling the body of the pack to join them, and stoop all together to the scent, when after a cheery twang, the huntsman returns his horn to its case, and the master, relieved, for an instant, from the weight of care, which none but an M.F.H. knows, takes his place alongside of his favourites, and observes mentally, though he wouldn’t say it aloud for a thousand, “Now, my fine fellows, ride on their backs if you _can_!” In short, at that delicious moment when the wise bethink them of a fox’s point, and a convenient lane, and the enthusiasts glance exultingly at each other, and say, “All right, old fellow! I _think_ we’re landed!” then hath each a fair field and no favour; and if a man’s hardihood, or his vanity, or his ambition, prompt him to assume a place in the front rank, he has nothing to do but go and try.