Unfortunately for the Authority, he does not notice the turn, and, riding hard along the lane for a point, he finds himself on reaching the top of a small hill utterly lost, no sign of the hounds and no sound of any sort to guide him. After riding about aimlessly in every direction for the best part of an hour, he at last hears tidings of their being down Hinckley way, and off he goes, only to hear that "T' hounds a-been gone better nor twenty minutes." It is now getting late, so Mr. Hall makes up his mind to ride home viâ the kennels, where for a moment we will leave him and return to Tom and the rest of the field. After ten minutes as fast as they can go, the fox tries the low wall of a farmyard, but the pace has been too hot for him, and he falls back right into the mouths of the pack. Having performed the funeral rites, Tom gets his orders for Hinckley, and then commence a series of disappointments. Foxes there are, for one is soon halloed away; but the hounds can make nothing of it directly they get into the open. Two or three times this happens, and it becomes evident that Mr. Hall was right in the main, and that they could not hunt that day. So at last the Master gives the word for home, for which few blame him. As Tom rides along the road to the kennels, he tells Charles and Harry they are to be sure and say that it has been a first-class thing, and to back him up in everything he says. Naturally they both wonder what the old man is up to, but Tom holds his peace, and will tell them nothing, looking the while as knowing as a jackdaw who has just hidden something valuable. Evidently he has concocted some scheme, and a light begins to dawn on the two Whips when the figure of Mr. Hall is seen in the distance. "Why, Mayster Hall, wheer an yer been to?" says Tom, as they overtake the lost one. "Well," replies Mr. Hall, "I don't know how it was, but when I got to Kirby I found I was clean out of it. I took the wrong turn in the wood, you see. You must have dipped the hill, and the infernal wind was so high I could not hear you." "Dear-a me, that was a pity! you missed summat good," exclaims Tom, with a sorrowful or rather pitiful expression. Mr. Hall eagerly snaps at the bait and asks for full particulars--whether they killed? where they went? who was up? etc. etc.; all of which information the Huntsman supplies with the gravest of countenances, inventing as he goes along. Charles and Harry are nearly convulsed, and it is with the utmost difficulty that they are able to speak when appealed to by old Tom to corroborate his statements. "By Jove, Tom, that was a good thing," says the Authority. "I said that they could only run down wind. You may always trust me about hunting. Why, its nearly nine miles straight on end! How long did you say?" "Fifty-five minutes, weren't it, Charles?" replies Tom, appealing to the First Whip. "Summat about there," answers Charles, turning away and muttering: "Lord forgive us, what a start!"