Jack the Runner is making a good haul, and, were he provident, might be able to lay by a little store to help through the summer; but, as we know, he is exactly the reverse, and whatever he earns to-day will be clean gone by the end of the week, if not before. "Well, Tom," says the Parson, from the middle of the pack (he has dismounted, and is surrounded by his favourites), "I suppose you won't be sorry to give the horn a bit of rest, eh? What say you, Minstrel?" turning to the old hound. "Sorry, Master Halston; I shanna know what to do wi' mysen till wa begin cubbing. It's allas the same, and t' hounds feel it just like I," replies Tom. "But never mind," he continues with a smile, "if so be as you'll gie us a sermon now and again about fox-'unting, I make no doubt we shall do." "Well, Tom, I should be puzzled for a text, I think," rejoins the Parson; "perhaps you will find one for me." At which remark the bystanders smile, for old Tom is not a very regular attendant; but the smile breaks into a loud peal of laughter when the Huntsman retaliates as quick as thought by saying: "Ay, I wull; you wunna have far to look. You can take for the first Sunday, 'Many dogs a-cum about me;' and then for the next week, as a wind-up, you can give us 'The fat bulls of Bashan,' and say what a murdering nuisance they was a-crossing the line." And with a "Coop, coom away, hounds," he rides away, having scored one most emphatically. At this juncture Sir John, having pulled out his watch, gives the signal, and away they trot to the first draw, which unfortunately proves a blank, as does the next, whereat Tom's soul waxeth wroth, and for five minutes the vengeance of the gods is called down on the "stinking violets," and other articles which in his opinion militate against the scent. The third essay seems likely for a long time to be as unproductive as the two former, when suddenly a whimper from Ranter, backed up by Harbinger, sends a thrill through the veins of the eager field. Tom is all life in a moment, and his "'Ave at 'im. Eugh, 'ave at 'im! Eugh, boys!" rings out clear and shrill. Not so shrill, though, as Charles's "Tally-ho! gone awa-a-y! awa-a-a-y!" which comes pealing through the trees from the bottom end, while the pack, catching it up, ring out a chorus that would waken the dead. "Hounds, please, hounds! Hold hard, gentlemen!" roars Sir John to some of the too enthusiastic fire-eaters as they gallop down the squashy ride, vainly endeavouring to get ahead of Tom, who, with white hair flying in the breeze, is vigorously cheering his hounds on to the line, occasionally giving them a chink of music to dance to. At last the wood is cleared, and the pack are streaming over the grass. Nearly everybody has got a good start, and each man, knowing it is his last day, rides his best.