At that instant, as if to give him the lie, came a “view halloa!” from Micky Finnegan away to the right where the fence divided the scrub land from the fields. In a second Rafter, followed by the pack, Shan, and all the field was making towards the sound. “Run!” cried Dicky, as he started after them, followed by Violet and General Grampound, who, despite the fact that his wind wasn’t “what it used to be,” managed to keep up with them. The dogs were just laid on, and every hound gave tongue as they streamed through the fence and over the ploughed land followed by Shan, who took the fence like a grasshopper, and the yelling field. Over the sound of the dogs, over the laughter and shouts, over everything came Shan’s “Forrard! forrard! forrard! Hi up, y’ divils!” “Over you go!” cried Dicky, who had taken the fence at a jump, whilst Violet, scrambling over, nearly tumbled into his arms. “It’s only a short bit of plough, and there’s grass fields beyond.” “Look at thim!” cried Patsy, who, with the children, was standing up in the “tub.” “Look at the ould Gineral getting over the fence; he’s callin’ thim to stop! Brayvo, Mr Fanshawe! Look at the ould Gineral—look at him goin’ over the plough—they’re through the hedge beyant. He’s afther thim—he’s through! He ain’t—he’s slipped and over on his back. Hurroo! brayvo, Mr Fanshawe! They’re half over the grass field.” “Run!” cried Dicky, as he dragged his companion through an opening in the hedge, dividing the plough from the grass lands. “Oh, Dicky,” gasped the girl, half dead with running, and laughing at the same time, “listen to him!” “I know,” said he. “It’s horrible—but’s it’s our only chance to have a minute together. Cling on to the end of my stick, it’ll help you. This grass isn’t bad going.” “He’s in the ditch!” gasped Violet. “It’s soft—he won’t hurt—run!” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXII LOVE “Where are the dogs and things?” asked Miss Lestrange, as she sat on a grassy bank under the shelter of a thick hedge, panting and arranging her hat. “_I_ don’t know,” replied Mr Fanshawe. “I only know _he_ must be a couple of miles away.” “This was the reason you wanted me to put on the short skirt.” “Yes. Wasn’t a bad idea—was it?” “I don’t know,” sighed she, in a despairing way, and then burst out laughing. “I’m not laughing at him—it’s the whole thing—that man hitting Mr Boxall over the head with a bag of soot—and the little donkey-cart—and that man in the old green coat with the whip—and his tumbling into the ditch, and all these people running after the hounds——” “And our running away!” “And our running away!” “Bother!” said Dicky. “What’s the matter?” asked Miss Lestrange, who had drawn a long pin from her hat, and was now reinserting it daintily with both hands upheld.