vain, and he has before him the double task
of finding the line of the hounds and of catching them when he has found
it. He has a crowd of men around him; but he knows enough of hunting
to be aware that the men who are wrong at such moments are always more
numerous than they who are right. He has to choose for himself, and
chooses quickly, dashing down a ride to the right, while a host of
those who know that he is one of them who like it, follow closely at
his heels, too closely, as he finds at the first fence out of the woods,
when one of his young admirers almost jumps on the top of him. "Do you
want to get into my pocket, sir?" he says, angrily. The young admirer is
snubbed, and, turning away, attempts to make a line for himself.

But though he has been followed, he has great doubt as to his own
course. To hesitate is to be lost, so he goes on, on rapidly, looking as
he clears every fence for the spot at which he is to clear the next; but
he is by no means certain of his course. Though he has admirers at
his heels who credit him implicitly, his mind is racked by an agony of
ignorance. He has got badly away, and the hounds are running well, and
it is going to be a good thing; and he will not see it. He has not
been in for anything good this year, and now this is his luck! His eye
travels round over the horizon as he is gallopping, and though he sees
men here and there, he can catch no sign of a hound; nor can he catch
the form of any man who would probably be with them. But he perseveres,
choosing his points as he goes, till the tail of his followers becomes
thinner and thinner. He comes out upon a road, and makes the pace as
good as he can along the soft edge of it. He sniffs at the wind, knowing
that the fox, going at such a pace as this, must run with it. He tells
himself from outward signs where he is, and uses his dead knowledge to
direct him. He scorns to ask a question as he passes countrymen in his
course, but he would give five guineas to know exactly where the hounds
are at that moment. He has been at it now forty minutes, and is in
despair. His gallant nag rolls a little under him, and he knows that he
has been going too fast. And for what; for what? What good has it all
done him? What good will it do him, though he should kill the beast?
He curses between his teeth, and everything is vanity and vexation of
spirit.

"They've just run into him at Boxall Springs, Mr. Jones," says a farmer
whom he passes on