The fox came to a fence. Under it he went. A moment later the hounds reached the fence, Pirate in the lead. Over they went in a stream, as pretty a spectacle as one could ask to see.
Firefoot swept along like a meteor. Frank could have cut ahead of Harden, but he knew better than to do such a thing. He fell behind the bugler, but ahead of Fenton. The others of his party were farther back.
The fence was reached, and Harden cleared it beautifully, without seeking for an easy spot. Frank followed, and Firefoot sailed over the obstruction like a bird.
“Good boy!” laughed Merry. “You’re all right! I’d like to own you!”
A strong feeling of affection for the horse sprang up in his breast. He touched Firefoot’s neck with a caressing hand.
Now came some scrub timber, and through it darted the fox, with the hounds plunging at its heels. Harden did not swerve, but held straight on the track. Frank followed.
Limbs were dodged, bushes slapped him in the face, and vines tried to drag him from the saddle; but he did not draw rein. Straight on he kept, and soon the small timber was behind.
A road was reached and crossed. Ahead was a field that sloped gradually, presenting a full view of the chase. Still the fox was running speedily, holding its own with the dogs.
“Ou-oo! ou-oo! ou-oo!”
Again and again the entire pack gave tongue. An old farmer on his way to market, stopped his cart on the road, stood up, waved his hat about his head, and cheered like a boy.