The hounds, having over-run the scent a trifle, swing to the line again with dashing confidence, and take it up once more with an energy that seems but increased by their momentary hesitation. They might have been covered by a sheet hitherto: now they lengthen out into a string, and the leaders scour along, with their noses in the air and their sterns lowered. Every yard increases their distance from the pursuing horsemen. They are pointing to a dead flat surface of old yellow grass, with patches of rushes and ant-hills interspersed. There would appear to be a mile or more of plain without a fence; but Mr. Sawyer spies a tell-tale willow here and there, and he wishes in his heart that he was quite sure Hotspur could jump water! Presently the hounds disappear, and emerge again, throwing their tongues as they take to running, and looking darker and less distinct than before. “Is there a ford, Charles?” halloos Major Brush, who has shaken to the front, and would fain continue there without a wetting. “Never a one for miles,” answers Charles with inconceivable rapidity, catching his horse by the head, and performing a running accompaniment with his spurs. In a few seconds, he is over with a considerable effort, a certain scramble and flourish when they land, showing there are very few inches to spare. The ill-fated Major has no idea of refusing. His horse however, thinks differently; so they compromise the matter by sliding in together, and climbing out separately, draggled, disgusted, and bemired. “There is no mistake about it,” thinks Mr. Sawyer; “I must jump or else go home!” He may take a liberty, he hopes, with a friend; so he puts the roan’s head close behind the Honourable Crasher, and devoutly trusting that gentleman will get over, drives Hotspur resolutely at the brook. Topsy-Turvy, wild with excitement, throws her head in the air, and takes off a stride too soon. Consequently she drops her hind legs, and rolls into the opposite field. The roan, who jumps as far as ever he can, lands on Crasher’s reins, of which the latter never lets go, and drives them into the turf. “Line, sir! line!” expostulates the Honourable, not knowing who it is. “Oh! it’s you, is it?” he adds, picking himself up, and re-mounting. “All right! Go along, old fellow! The hounds are running like smoke!” Mr. Sawyer apologises freely as they gallop on. In his heart he thinks Crasher the best fellow he ever met, and contrasts his behaviour with that of Sir Samuel Stuffy in the Old Country, on whom he once played the same trick, and whose language in return was more Pagan than Parliamentary. The master and Struggles get over also, the latter not without a scramble. Those who are not in the first flight wisely diverge towards a bridge. For five minutes and more there are but half-a-dozen men with the hounds. These run harder than ever for another mile, then throw their heads up, and come to an untoward check.