But enough of serious matters. Let us go out and forget them in a run with Sir Pryse's harriers, along the breezy gorse-covered downs of the Gogerddan estate. We take the train which arrives just after we have risen from dinner, and land at the upland village of Langfihangel. It is a Saturday afternoon, the 21st of October, the day is clear and sunny, and several ladies are of the party. A few hundred yards from the station we met the hounds, and Sir Pryse's man who hunts them. The owner is not with them, but (by his good leave) yonder tall, lithe fellow, the best runner in the school, acts as Master of Hounds. He promises us good sport, having heard from the huntsman of a hare which is "waiting for us." As they prepare to cast off, the non-effectives separate from the runners, and climb a round-topped hill which commands the country. The fields are spread like a map under us; nothing on the face of the country escapes our eyes. The hare that was "waiting for us" has grown tired of it, and left the rendezvous, but another is soon started, and a stout one. She is of the mountain breed, as are many in this country; they could not otherwise have held out so long before the pursuit of such runners, to say nothing of the hounds. The "tally-ho" comes cheerly up to us from the valley through the crisp October air, and we see puss scudding along up the hedgerow, the hounds and the foremost runners in the next field, the rest thinning out and straggling behind them. Among these we recognise with glee a friend or two, who years ago were in the first flight of every Uppingham paper-chase (_si nunc foret illa uventus_), labouring across a turnip-field, or held by the leg in a gorse- cover. A check gives them a chance of coming up again with huntsman and master. We won't spoil the chance by halloing where the hare went, though, from our vantage-ground, we can view her throughout. Our friends have just got in line with the leaders, and are finding their breath again for a second burst, when the scent is recovered; the chase sweeps up the ridge, and over it out of our sight, away, perhaps, towards the moorland spurs of Plinlimmon. We descend the hill homewards, leaving puss to her doom, whatever it may be. For these runs sometimes had a fatal termination. In the school serial is told the story of a magnificent day, of which, however, the runners did not witness the end, for "time was drawing late, and we were far from the station, so had to leave the hounds under the charge of the huntsman alone, and as the hare was now exhausted, they soon killed her. We were on the scent for over two hours, and ran about twelve miles." These days took place two or three times a week; for good practical reasons the "field" was restricted in numbers.