A pretty picture is displayed! A fine stretch of heather extending for some miles, through which the old main road from London to Portsmouth runs, with now and again considerable stretches of fir woods forming a dark fringe to the view, whilst over the fir tops the sun, just emerging, adds a sparkling brightness to the landscape, which would be alone sufficient to repay the early start. The busy pack makes a beautiful foreground, flinging here and there in search of the momentarily vanished clue. Mark that veteran of the pack, well known for his wide and independent casts; the huntsman’s eye is on him, and he moves quietly in his direction, without, however, so much as whistling to his hounds. He has judged wisely, for Challenger unmistakably has the line and speaks to it confidently, just as the huntsman gets near enough to put in with good effect, “Hark to Challenger!” and hounds, flying to cry, take up the running with a chorus which it does one’s heart good to hear. They have, however, only run about a hundred yards when they check quite suddenly, once more spreading out like a fan. But they are only momentarily at fault. Poor puss is down, her heart having failed her after coming about two miles straight, and she is up and off in view as soon as the hounds, who have slightly overrun the scent, spread back to where she has clapped. She heads for home, and hounds run fast for another fifteen minutes before checking on the island farm which they crossed in the first burst. The sun is getting strong by this time, and scent does not serve so well on the arable land. Hounds slowly carry the line into the middle of a newly ploughed hillside field, and gradually come to a stop. Evidently the hare is forward, so, after leaving his hounds alone sufficiently long to enable them to recover the line, unassisted if they can, the huntsman resolves on a cast “forrard.” He whistles his hounds to him, and at a gentle double casts them round the fence from about opposite to where they checked, keeping his hounds in front of him, and giving them time to try as they go. Almost immediately one of the puppies speaks, and out pops a rabbit right under his nose. The huntsman rates “Ware rabbit!” and, very much to their credit, none of the old hounds break away. It is, however, altogether too much for the puppies, who every one of them courses the rabbit for about a hundred yards in full cry.