"Pull that young 'un together," says old Simms as they neared the fence; "it's a big 'un." His old mare slips over as if it was child's play. Not so the "young 'un." Going like an express train, he never rises an inch, and James finds himself and the nag somewhat mixed up on the other side.
"That's a buster. No damage, eh?" says Tom.
"Not a bit; for'ard on," replies James, swinging himself into his saddle, and giving his astonished animal a gentle reminder. "It'll teach him to rise next time. There goes the governor," as his father landed in a blind ditch at the next obstacle, but was up and going again in a moment.
At this crisis they are joined by the Master and a chosen few. "All, this is something like a fox, worthy of the family," laughs Sir John Lappington as he gallops alongside. "Did you breed him on purpose?"
"No, Sir John; I can't quite say that. He's an artful old dodger though, and mother says she's had the feeding of him. He was up in the stump, and a lad fetched him out with my whip," replies Simms the younger as they stride over the grass.
"By gad, fox is bound for your place," says Tom to the father. And Tom is right. Straight as a die he heads for old Simms' farm, and now that they are on his land the son does not forget to chaff his father most unmercifully about the roughness of the fences. A few fields farther on a labourer hollos him, and in the meadow before the house the hounds view, and they run into him almost in the garden.
"Who-whoop," yells the old man, as pleased as Punch. "Now then, missus," as Mrs. Simms comes out to see the end of the destroyer of her chickens, "ale and beer and anything you have. What is it, gentlemen? Give it a name," as the field one by one jump off their smoking horses. "We must drink the health of this one; it's, as Sir John says, a family fox. Oh, bother the turkeys, missus," as Mrs. S. mutters something about feeding the fox; "you can think of nothing but turkeys. We's all a-dry here;" and he bustles off to fetch out some more of the rare old home-brewed, reappearing in a few minutes with an enormous jug. "Now, Sir John, one more glass. No? Anybody else say anything? Here, Tom, I must have that brush. Best thing we've had this season. Oh, you don't want any more beer, James; you ought to feed on phosphates," as his son holds out a horn to be replenished. "There, bring my horse, lad," to a labourer; and the old man, his face beaming with pleasure, is ready for the fray again.
That evening there is what James calls a "symposium" at the farm, and the run is run over again. "Twenty-five minutes without a check, and thank you kindly for the missus, self, and son. I only hope we shall be able to find as good a one next time we draw the gorse, and if every one of us has a family fox on his place, the Bullshire need have no fear about sport," is what old Simms says in acknowledging the toast of himself and family, which is drunk with three times three.