“Have they?” wondered Lionel, watching the Master. “Some of the old ’uns don’t think so.”
Margot heard the Master talking confidentially to Ravager:
“That won’t do, old boy, will it?” He roared out to his Whip: “Stop ’em!” So well-broken were the hounds that as soon as the Whip called “Hold hard!” they streamed back to the Master, looking rather ashamed of themselves. He rated them kindly: “Silly beggars! Think you can catch a fresh deer, do you? Let’s see what you can do with a half-cooked ’un.”
“Have we lost him?” Margot asked Lionel.
“We shall hit him off all right.”
The Master held hounds on till they spoke to the true line a hundred yards beyond the false.
“They’re away,” said Lionel. “Look at the three- and four-season hounds racing to the front. Oh, you beauties!”
The Master touched his horn—one melodious note.
“Forrard!”
But the buck was too spent to go very far. He soiled again in Handy Cross Pond. Just beyond the Ringwood Road a forest-keeper was seen carrying his gun.