Mr. Carteret gave his horse its head and he shot to the front, but Grady was nearly a field in the lead and it promised to be a long chase as he was on the Major’s black thoroughbred. The cowboy rode along with a loose rein and an easy balance seat. At his fences he swung his hat and cheered. He seemed to be enjoying himself and Mr. Carteret was anxious lest he might begin to shoot for pure delight. Such a demonstration would have been misconstrued. Nearly two hundred yards ahead at the heels of the pack galloped the Indians, and in the middle distance between them and Grady rode Lord Ploversdale and Smith vainly trying to overtake the hounds and whip them off. Behind and trailing over a mile or more came the field and the rest of the hunt servants in little groups, all awestruck at what had happened. It was unspeakable that Lord Ploversdale’s hounds which had been hunted by his father and his grandfather should be so scandalized. Mr. Carteret finally got within a length of Grady and hailed him. “Hello, Carty,” said Grady, “glad to see you. I thought you were sick. What can I do? They’ve stampeded. But it’s a great ad. for the show, isn’t it? I’ve got four reporters in a hack on the road.” “Forget about the show,” said Mr. Carteret. “This isn’t any laughing matter. Ploversdale’s hounds are one of the smartest packs in England. You don’t understand.” “It will make all the better story in the papers,” said Grady. “No, it won’t,” said Mr. Carteret. “They won’t print it. It’s like a blasphemy upon the Church.” “Whoop!” yelled Grady, as they tore through a bullfinch. “Call them off,” said Mr. Carteret, straightening his hat. “But I can’t catch ’em,” said Grady, and that was the truth. Lord Ploversdale, however, had been gaining on the Indians, and by the way in which he clubbed his heavy crop, loaded at the butt, it was apparent that he meant to put an end to the proceedings if he could. Just then hounds swept over the crest of a green hill and as they went down the other side, they viewed the fox in the field beyond. He was in distress, and it looked as if the pack would kill in the open. They were running wonderfully together, the traditional blanket would have covered them, and in the natural glow of pride which came over the M. F. H., he loosened his grip upon the crop. But as the hounds viewed the fox so did the three sons of the wilderness who were following close behind. From the hilltop fifty of the hardest going men in England saw Hole-in-the-Ground flogging his horse with the heavy quirt which hung from his wrist. The outraged British hunter shot forward scattering hounds to right and left, flew a ditch and hedge and was close on the fox who had stopped to make a last stand. Without drawing rein, the astonished onlookers saw the lean Indian suddenly disappear under the neck of his horse and almost instantly swing back into his seat waving a brown thing above his head. _Hole-in-the-Ground had caught the fox!_