be desired. We were glad afterwards that we had taken this precaution,
as the reader will see.

I can't say if the Parkhurst method of conducting our "hunts" was the
orthodox one; I know _we_ considered it was, as our rules were our own
making, or rather a legacy left to us by a former generation of runners
at the school.

We were to take, in all, a twelve miles' course, of nearly an oval
shape, six miles out and six miles home. Any amount of dodging or
doubling was to be allowed to us hares, except crossing our own path.
We were to get five minutes' clear start, and, of course, were expected
to drop our paper "scent" wherever we went.

Luckily for me, Birch was an old hand at running hare, and up to all
sorts of dodges, so that I knew all it was needful for me to do was to
husband my "wind," and run evenly with him, leaving him to shape our
course and regulate our pace.

It was a lively scene at the Dean's Warren, when we reached it a few
minutes before the appointed time that afternoon. The "pack"--that is,
the twenty or thirty fellows who were to run as "hounds"--were fast
assembling, and divesting themselves of everything but their light
flannels. The whipper-in, conspicuous by the little bugle slung across
his shoulders, and the light flag in his hand, was there in all the
importance of his office; and, as usual, the doctor and a party of
visitors, ladies and gentlemen, had turned out to witness the start.

"Five minutes, hares!" shouts Forwood, as Birch and I came on the spot.

We use the interval in stripping off all unnecessary apparel, and
girding ourselves with our bags of "scent," or scraps of torn-up paper,
which we are to drop as we run. Then we sit and wait the moment for
starting. The turf is crisp under our feet; the sun is just warm enough
to keep us from shivering as we sit, and the wind just strong enough to
be fresh. Altogether it is to be doubted if a real meet of real hounds
to hunt real hares--a cruel and not very manly sport, after all--could
be much more exciting than this is.

"Half a minute!" sings out the whipper-in, as we spring to our feet.

In another thirty seconds we are swinging along at a good pace down the
slope of the warren, in the direction of Colven meadows, and the hunt
has begun.

As long as we were in sight of the pack we kept up a good hard pace, but
on reaching cover we settled down at once to a somewhat more sober jog-
trot, in anticipation of the long chas