Diamond found Merriwell near the summerhouse chewing his lip and standing in an attitude that expressed mingled rage and disgust.
“Didn’t catch either of them, did you?” asked Jack.
“No,” was the answer; “but I think I know them both. They were the discharged hostler and Steve Fenton, or I’m daffy.”
CHAPTER XXVII—THE HUNT
“Hark away!”
The sound of baying hounds and the hunter’s horn cut the crisp morning air.
“The dogs have struck a track!” gayly cried Frank, who was mounted on Firefoot, having chosen that horse, although warned that he was the most dangerous animal in the Springbrook stables. “Listen to that! Is it not music to stir the blood?”
The baying of the hounds grew more and more distinct, and surely it was sweet music to the ear of the enthusiastic hunter. Rising, falling, now loud and clear, now faint and low, the mellow notes came across the meadows.
“They’re coming this way!” cried Diamond, excitedly, as his mount pricked up its ears and pawed the ground, plainly longing to be off after the baying dogs. “Come, Frank!”
“Shimminy Ghristmas!” gurgled Hans Dunnerwust, who was astride an old steed. “You don’d pelief dese hoss vos bound to run avay mit myseluf, do I?”