“Let ’em out, Mark,” said a well-known voice, and as the feeder threw back the door, we scrambled from the court, and ran and jumped in sportive circles about the horses. Although in the highest state of excitement, every tongue was mute, and a slight crack from Tom Holt’s whip put a considerable check to the rather violent gambols of a few of the youngest. It was not quite daylight as we trotted along between three and four miles; and as we entered a gate at the end of a by-lane, who should be standing with his reins over his arm, and leaning carelessly against the side of his horse, but our “up-with-the-lark” and excellent master.
“You are behind your time, William,” said he, throwing himself into his saddle.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” replied the huntsman, tugging at the curb chain securing his thick watch in a very deep fob, “I think not.”
“By seven minutes,” rejoined his master.
“Quite right, sir,” added Will, looking at his apoplectic time-keeper. “Seven minutes have given me the slip.”
“No matter,” returned the Squire; “we have scarcely light enough as it is.”
The narrow zig-zag lane led on to a large open grass field, on the borders of which was one of the best and strongest covers in our country.
“Who has examined this cover?” asked the Squire.
“Tom Holt, sir,” replied the huntsman.
“Where did you find most billets?”