It is a quick find, and the fox breaks close by Mr. Whistler, who, as soon as he sees him well away, gives vent to his feelings in a somewhat beery view holloa, and then proceeds to follow as fast as he can. At the bottom of the meadow, below the gorse, runs a broadish brook, and a good many turn away for the road and bridge which spans the obstacle. On any other occasion Jack would have done the same, but his failure in the road and old Tom's laughter still rankles in his bosom, and as he runs down towards the water he clutches his pole and says to himself: "I'll show some on 'em as I ain't a-going to be second. I'll pound a few on 'em I'll bet. I do 'ope that old beggar Tom 'ull get a wet jacket."
As the hounds dash in and feather about on the other side, Tom and the hard-riders pull up to see which way the line lies and whether the fox is over or not. But Jack does not stop a moment, and with an exultant shout of "Come on, gents, what are yer waiting for?" he jumps as far as he can, and, holding his pole in a slanting position, plunges it in to aid him in his journey over the water.
The pole touches the bottom and then sinks into about two feet of mud, leaving Jack suspended in mid-air. A momentary pause, and with a "Rot the thing!" the Runner disappears from view beneath the waters of the brook, emerging on the other side half drowned and covered with black slime, while the instrument of his misfortune remains erect in the middle.
"I thought you was a-going fishing," says Tom with a chuckle; as he lands safe by the side of Jack, and then as he passes him to get to the hounds: "You'd better take a few lessons from your pal Riley afore you try again."
The rest of the spectators are nearly in a state of collapse with laughter, both at the pitiable sight Jack presents as well as at the murderous glances he casts at the pole; but hounds are running and there is no time to lose, so the chase sweeps past and he is left alone in his misery to make the best of his way home. As soon as Jack has scraped himself a bit clean and wrung out his coat, he feels carefully in his pockets to see if all his gains are safe; and finding everything right in that respect he brightens up, and leaving his pole where it is, moves off at a brisk jog-trot to the nearest public to dry the outer and wet the inner man.
When next he appears at the door he shows evident signs that he has accomplished the latter part of his purpose, for his course is anything but straight, and after taking nearly an hour to do half a mile he manages to stagger into a barn, where in a few moments he is "wrapt in sweet slumber."
He is not, however, likely to take any harm from the proceeding, for he is used to the sort of sleeping-place, and will turn out next morning—a little red about the eyes perhaps—but ready to go any distance with the hounds, and, what is more, equally ready for some more of the "hair of the dog that bit him."
Passionately fond of hounds and hunting, he enjoys life thoroughly during the winter, and lives on the fat of the land; but when what he calls the "stinking violets and primroses" appear, things are not so pleasant. "Othello's occupation gone," he has to fall back on odd jobs and an occasional half-a-crown from Sir John or some of his friends, and, failing these, may be generally found "at home" at the "red house," maybe better known as the "workus."
Vagabond he is, and vagabond he will remain. Nevertheless, there is many a man who would be sorry to hear of anything serious happening to Jack Whistler the Bullshire Runner.