"Stop where yer be, Jim," says the elder; "yer canna do better, and if yer gets messing about now you'll only have t' Master and old Tom atop o' yer back." So Jim is persuaded, and remains quiet. Presently a yellow body is seen stealing through the underwood, and the chorus of music shows that the hounds are aware of Mr. Reynard's presence. "There 'e goes," whispers Jim, "and here they come. By Guy, the're away," as the hounds dash through the covert, and a loud "Tally-ho" is heard on the other side. To slip down is the work of an instant, and both Jim and his companion are making the best of their way to the corner where the fox has broken. Here they find a regular crush; the hunting-gate is locked or jammed, and no one can get out. Threading their way through the horses, however, with the help of a good heave, a strong heave, and a heave both together, the pair manage to have the gate off its hinges, and the impatient field rush through, nearly overturning Jim in their mad career. "Oh, go on, go on," says that worthy, as he jumps out of the way; "some on yer won't go much farther than the first fence at that pace." And he is right. There are two or three loose horses running about, one of which he manages to catch and restore to the owner, receiving in return a small acknowledgment, which--having submitted to the universal test, his teeth--he slips into the pocket of his brown corduroys. The next field is a stiffish plough, and by the time he is halfway across Hodge is done, and he finds his heavy boots none the lighter for three or four inches of wet clay adhering to the soles. However, the sight of a friendly hayrick in the distance consoles him, and to his great delight he sees a ladder is reared against it and a man at work cutting out some trusses. "Can yer see ought on 'em, ould man?" he pants, as he reaches the foot of the ladder, and the "ould man" from his coign of vantage, shouts back: "Nip up, lad, nip up, the're a-going like billy o'." Jim is quickly alongside, his face beaming with excitement as he sees the whole panorama of the chase stretched out before him. As he watches, he notices his friend of the morning--Mr. Tyrol--and points him out to the man on the rick. Luck favouring the spectators, the hounds suddenly swing sharp round and cross close beneath and within hearing. There is a nasty fence over which the line lies, and a goodish few turn away for the gate, but Mr. Tyrol heads straight for it with the rest of the hard-riders. "Well done, sir; well done!" roars Hodge from the rick, and Mr. T., recognising him, gives him a nod as he rides at the fence. His horse, however, jumps short, and the result is a rattling fall.