the slope. The brook is a small one, and the scent lies
right ahead up the opposite slope, and as thick as ever--not a turn or
a check to favour the tail hounds, who strain on, now trailing in a long
line, many a youngster beginning to drag his legs heavily, and feel his
heart beat like a hammer, and the bad-plucked ones thinking that after
all it isn't worth while to keep it up.

Tom, East, and the Tadpole had a good start, and are well up for such
young hands, and after rising the slope and crossing the next field,
find themselves up with the leading hounds, who have overrun the scent,
and are trying back. They have come a mile and a half in about eleven
minutes, a pace which shows that it is the last day. About twenty-five
of the original starters only show here, the rest having already given
in; the leaders are busy making casts into the fields on the left and
right, and the others get their second winds.

Then comes the cry of "Forward" again from young Brooke, from the
extreme left, and the pack settles down to work again steadily and
doggedly, the whole keeping pretty well together. The scent, though
still good, is not so thick; there is no need of that, for in this part
of the run every one knows the line which must be taken, and so there
are no casts to be made, but good downright running and fencing to be
done. All who are now up mean coming in, and they come to the foot of
Barby Hill without losing more than two or three more of the pack. This
last straight two miles and a half is always a vantage ground for the
hounds, and the hares know it well; they are generally viewed on the
side of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the lookout for them to-day. But
not a sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for the hounds,
and there is nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is
now the hares' turn, and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the next
two miles.

Ill fares it now with our youngsters, that they are School-house boys,
and so follow young Brooke, for he takes the wide casts round to the
left, conscious of his own powers, and loving the hard work. For if you
would consider for a moment, you small boys, you would remember that the
Cock, where the run ends and the good ale will be going, lies far out to
the right on the Dunchurch road, so that every cast you take to the left
is so much extra work. And at this stage of the run, when the evening is
closing in already, no one remarks wh