Mr. Hook, proving himself a horseman, if no butler, gave the big snaffle bit three jags, which took the youngster's head up, and bringing down his crop on the sleek bay quarters, got the big humped back up straight, and set the great brute going in the deep ground before he knew where he was. The bad example brought forth a series of squeals and light-hearted bounds from more sedate hunters, Gheena's roan compassing three excellent plunges, and Dearest George's old bay kicking his master on to his neck.
"If mine begins," said Matilda nervously.
"Oh, take him into the soft and he'll never lift you," suggested the General absently. "I hope that man won't be hurt. He's valuable. Well over!"
This, as the youngster swept a fair-sized bog trench with a snort of wrath.
Hounds went into covert now without requiring to be personally conducted. They had scarcely vanished when Home Ruler's great bay sounded sonorously, followed by Grandjer's short yap.
"Overture to the Valkyrie," said Brownlow thoughtfully; "full orchestra."
Darby cheered them quickly, his familiar cry being followed to-day by a bellow from his fellow Master George, in which "Forrard!" or "Tally ho!" and "Good boys!" seemed to be blended, but not satisfactorily mixed.
Beauty, in fact, climbed on the bank with an inquiring expression on her pale face.
"For Heaven's sake, George! You'll get their heads up! And Keefe squeaking the 'Gloria' at the other end! Well, if it isn't that, it's something out of tune. He'll go soon. They're rattling him, but be quiet."
Darby leant forward, twisted useless limbs forgotten now. He was on a horse's back, his grip firm there. He could ride as well as men who had never known pain. There was the prospect of a gallop over these small green fields, and of watching his hounds hunt—terriers, harriers, what you will, yet his hounds, and keen for blood.