Hard work it is to catch them, for they are racing with a scent breast-high, but the schoolboys sit down and send their ponies along with a will, thinking no more of the big bank and ditch that confront them than they would if it was only a broken sheep-hurdle. Harold Lappington is first down to it, and his young gray pecks badly on the far side, for the animal is a bit fresh and over-jumps himself. Harold's fine seat, however, saves him from a fall, and turning round to where he sees young Charlie Whistler riding his pony, scarce thirteen hands three inches in height, at the biggest place he can find, he shouts: "Steady, Charlie; it's too big for you; take it in two, on and off." "Go on," replies the monkey, "I'm all----" he would have said "right," but as he was turning head over heels like a rabbit before he could finish his sentence, he found further conversation somewhat difficult. Next in order came two hard-riding members with Sir John and Mrs. Talford, and then a whole crowd of horses and ponies, a good many of which plumbed the depths of the ditch on the landing-side. It is wonderful what a good pony will do with a resolute youngster on his back. Where it can't jump it will creep or climb, and generally manages to pull through somehow or other; but this particular fence is a rasper to commence with, and in most cases the cause of grief is over-excitement. "You're a nice sort of fellow, Tom, slipping off like that," says Harold, as he comes up with the old Huntsman, who is gnashing his teeth because they've checked, and "Them blessed lads will be all among t' hounds again." "What did you do it for?" he continues. "Ah Mayster Harold; must get a start, or we should never get through all them ponies," replies Tom. "Here they come, by gad. That's it, praise the Lord," as the hounds hit it off just as the rest arrive. "For'ard on," yell the lads, as pleased as Punch to have caught the hounds again. "Harold, it's my idea the fox will make over the Swill," says Sir John to his brother, as they gallop along the grass. "There are two or three deuced stiff ploughs before we get there, and as you can't jump it we had better take the road and round by the bridge." "Not I; I'm going with the hounds," replies Harold. "If they go over I can but go in and out." "Don't you be a fool," retorts the Master. "By Jove, I'm right! it is for the Swill," as the hounds swung to the left towards the line of pollards that denote the course of that "meandering streamlet." "Hold hard, young gentlemen, hold hard," roars Tom, as they hang for a moment on the plough, and five or six reeking ponies get unpleasantly near his darlings. "You canna jump Swill; you must go round by t' bridge." But they pay no heed to either him or paternal warning, and pound away over the plough towards the willows. "Here, I'm dashed if some on 'em won't get drownded, for they'll have it, as sure as my name's Wilding," he continues.