"When the squire and the pack got back to the kennels there war no Tom. 'Hullo! where be Tom?' cried the squire, and he got anxious, for never in the born days of man had Tom not turned up. They called and they sent out riders, and they shouted like scholards out on a holiday, but nothin' of Tom could they hear. So out the squire and the faithful hunt they set, with a fresh pack, and fresh horses, and only a lick down of somethin' to keep the soul in 'em. On they went, the squire leadin' like a lord on his white-legged chestnut. Only this time it warn't no fox-hunting, but a man as they war searchin' after. "On they rode across Blakeway, beyond Harley, then turning straight westwards they got to the wild country, and they rode round, I've heard say, almost to Church Stretton, up to the foot of the Caradoc; and sure enough, just as the squire war about to give up the job and creep home to get a bit of supper, and get dogs and men to their beds, they heard, as I'm a Christian man, somethin' a-croaking and calling 'Tally-ho! tally-ho!' but so hoarse, and strange, and misty-like, that it seemed no real voice, but whispers from a ghost. [Sidenote: THE MIDNIGHT CHASE] "One of the whipper-ins, a small white-haired little chap as they used to call 'Soap,' because he looked so clean and peart, and was a pet-like with the lasses, began to shiver and call out 'Lord 'a mercy, let's hunt the fox, but leave alone devils and Herne the Hunter, and such like.' But the squire, he never turned a hair, and he called out, 'No bed, or rest for me till we've found Tom,' and he rode on on his chestnut; and then Jack Pendrell, what was a groom, he called out too, 'Where the squire goes, I go,' and he set spurs into his grey; and then they followed on, hounds and men, like a covey of partridges. And all of a sudden, I have heard 'em say (for it war the talk of the country-side for many days), Old Dancer gave a whimper and then Regent followed suit, and then Butterfly and Skylark threw in their bell notes, and away the whole hunt burst like steam. They barely seemed to touch the ground, but ran like mad, as hounds do in a killing scent. The squire fairly split the chestnut, Tom Trig and Bob Buckson followed close behind, and they rode as if the devil was at their heels. And all the while the voice kept calling, hullooing like a spirit in a tomb, only fainter and fainter--a kind of unearthly screech like a raven dooming a Christian across a churchyard. At last two hounds ran in, and the squire leapt from his horse, which steamed like a chimney, and there they found Tom sucked up in the ground fit to die, and the wind pretty nearly out of his body. He looked like a ghost when they got him out. He must have perished long before, he told 'em, if it hadn't been that he had found a stout handful of grass by which he had hung on, and called for his life.