The other hares, only too eager to be led, acquiesced at once.
Off they started, keeping well to the right, past the farm, and through the pasture, leaving the tiny line of white that later dumbfounded the pursuing hounds. On they sped to the orchard and panting, but delighted, they again reached the bridge.
“Everybody underneath and don’t make a sound,” Polly warned them, “and keep well to the end so they won’t see us as they come along; our only danger is, that they may notice the short trail that leads down here.”
They waited for what seemed an age, balancing
themselves on slippery stones, very much excited, but very still, save for an occasionally suppressed giggle.
In a few minutes they heard the thump, thump of the approaching hounds and held their breath as the bridge shook over their heads.
“Safe,” whispered some one as the sound grew fainter in the distance:
“Where next?”
“Here, of course,” replied Polly; “we mustn’t move, they are sure to come back.”
After the hounds had consulted in the corner of the pasture, they made the circle again. As they reached the bridge for the third time, they were both tired and discouraged. In the middle they halted.