"Something I thought of, sir," he gulped at last respectfully. "Er—a tale—they told me."
"Move on, Barty," said Darby shortly; "it's twelve o'clock."
The way into the gorse cover lay past a stretch of bog-land which was thick with hares; then the black caps lined up behind the pack.
Daisy and Greatness broke away, throwing their tongues.
"Whip them off that hare, Barty. Get round them, Carty."
Darby was finding himself as a Master of Hounds; he no longer gave orders dubiously, but with a pointed bitterness of decision.
"It is no use to be larrupin' them for what they were used to," said Barty philosophically, as he rode the aggrieved Greatness off the line with a polo-player's skill.
"Home to bed, Greatness!" shrieked young Andy reproachfully. "Home to bed, ye schamer, ye! There is foxes beyant an' ye're wantin' yere nise on little better than rabbits."
"Lord above us! to be brought out for this," said Brownlow. "For this! Look at them! Hook, look out, man!"
The bay horse got his feet on the grass for the first time. Three mighty bucks carried him well on to the soft ground, where he stretched his head out and began to kick.