Saturday came. The members of the hunt were mostly boys who lived in the neighbourhood; so the arrangement was that at half-past two we should meet at the turnpike gate outside the Spaniards. I brought my lunch with me and ate it in Regent's Park, and then took the 'bus to the Heath. One by one the others came up. Beyond mere glances, none of them took any notice of me. I was wearing my ordinary clothes over my jersey. I knew they thought I had come merely to see them start, and I hugged to myself the dream of the surprise that was in store for them, and of which I should be the hero. He came, one of the last, our leader and chief, and I sidled up behind him and waited, while he busied himself organising and constructing.
“But we've only got one hare,” cried one of them. “We ought to have two, you know, in case one gets blown.”
“We've got two,” answered the Duke. “Think I don't know what I'm about? Young Kelver's going to be the other one.”
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.”