"Gentlemen," says the Master, "for your own sport I wish the whole of the left side and bottom of the covert kept free. It's a clear start either way, therefore I must beg you not to get for'ard. Give the fox a chance, and then, so long as you don't ride over the hounds, go as you like." Someone suggests that the Colonel and his wife have gone down to the bottom, whereupon Sir John shuts him up by saying: "That, sir, is only another reason why nobody else should go. When we draw your coverts we will allow you to go where you like, and keep the rest out of your way." As the individual happens to be a gentleman who has only that season come down to Bullshire, and has not subscribed as yet to the hounds, the remark causes a general titter, and the man wishes he had not spoken. His discomfiture is, however, of short duration, for at this instant the hounds find, and from the chorus and way they rattle him up and down the covert it is clear that they are not far behind their fox. Two rings round the Wood and he finds it too hot to hold him, so away he goes across the slope in full view of the whole field. "Hold hard one moment, gentlemen," shouts the Master, as Tom, horn in hand, tops the wood fence, and claps the hounds on to the line. "Now"--and a hundred or more horses are rattling down the hill towards the fence at the bottom. Some visibly diminish their pace as they near the obstacle, and some make a determined point to the gate in the corner, which a friendly yeoman is holding open. But there is little time to notice all this, for the pace is a cracker, and the scent is breast-high. Two or three loose horses are careering about the next field, and two or three dismounted riders are running after them. "Catch hold, sir," says young Simms, as he stops one of the horses and delivers him up to his owner; "catch hold--I can't stop;" and he is over the next bank and ditch before the spilt one has recovered the effects of his acrobatic performance. Such a jam at the double post and rails! There are but three or four negotiable places, and everybody is racing for them madly. The Parson and the Doctor fly them together, and so shake themselves clear of the ruck, while a hard-riding Meltonian carries away a heap of them. But where is Mrs. Talford? There she is on the left, close to the hounds, yet well wide of them, slipping along with an easy grace, looking as if she was merely cantering, Queen Bee taking everything before her, and making as little of the fences as if they were the lowest of hurdles. How the deuce did she get there? everybody who has time to notice her wonders. But no one ever knows how she does get anywhere. No matter what sort of a start she gets, unless hopelessly thrown out Mrs. Talford before long is certain to be found sailing along in close proximity to the hounds.