Silence fell upon the meet.
“Oh, I say, we don't want him,” at last broke in a voice. “He's a muff.”
“He can run,” explained the Duke.
“Let him run home,” came another voice, which was greeted with laughter.
“You'll run home in a minute yourself,” threatened the Duke, “if I have any of your cheek. Who's captain here—you or me? Now, young 'un, are you ready?”
I had commenced unbuttoning my jacket, but my hands fell to my side. “I don't want to come,” I answered, “if they don't want me.”
“He'll get his feet wet,” suggested the boy who had spoken first. “Don't spoil him, he's his mother's pet.”
“Are you coming or are you not?” shouted the Duke, seeing me still motionless. But the tears were coming into my eyes and would not go back. I turned my face away without speaking.
“All right, stop then,” cried the Duke, who, like all authoritative people, was impatient above all things of hesitation. “Here, Keefe, you take the bag and be off. It'll be dark before we start.”
My substitute snatched eagerly at the chance, and away went the hares, while I, still keeping my face hid, moved slowly off.