The boys could not repress their cheers. The horses they bestrode were dancing now, but the animals were held in check yet a little longer, and then, with a cry to the others, Frank gave Firefoot his head.
Down toward the hunters charged the second party, riding to join them. They were seen, and Harden set the horn to his lips and blew a welcome.
Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra-tar!
How the bugle note cuts the frosty air! It is enough to stir the blood in the veins of a sluggard.
The horses cannot be held in check. Oh, the glorious excitement of the mad ride—the delight of speed! Whip nor spur is not needed, and like birds they go across small washouts, down into a tiny ravine, and then up again with short, sharp jerks.
“Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!”
It is the baying of the hounds, the whole pack bursting into a grand swell of melody. Who would not rise early to hear such a morning chant!
The fox—there he goes! He is a red fellow, fine and large, good for many a mile. He seems to run with his legs stretched straight and his body almost touching the ground, while his brush is defiantly erect.
“This is indeed sport!” thought Frank Merriwell. “And, barring accidents, Firefoot will bring me in at the death.”
“Hi! hi! hi!”