"That wasn't Rackham. That was Bond, hurrying home to tea."
"He's probably come to grief. His horse had had about enough when I lost him."
Another man popped his head over the hedge that had worsted him. His hat was stove in, and his tired animal was blowing on the farther side.
"He's all right," he said. "The devil looks after his own. I turned the most horrible somersault back yonder, through my horse catching his leg in a binder; and before I could pick myself up, over shoots Rackham, practically on the top of us. If he'd even given me time to roll into the ditch!—Down he went to the water.... I wish I could think he was swimming in it."
"He's not far, anyhow. Hark to him. I'd know that laugh of his a mile off. There he goes—'Haw, haw, haw!'—all by himself, in the valley."
They turned their heads to listen, with a broadening and sympathetic grin, as the dim outline of a horseman took shape in the semi-obscurity, travelling upwards. It wasn't at all unlike Rackham to turn up like that, though there hadn't been a sign of him till they heard his laughter. The wonder would have been if he had let himself be beaten altogether. What obstinacy had kept him going was explained by the spur marks on his horse's sides as he brushed through a gap and took stock of the diminished party, the handful that had, by a minute or two, outstripped him.
"Only the tough 'uns in it," he said. "It wasn't bad. Has the fox dipped into the sunset and left you staring? Where are we? We must feel our way home, or let the horses smell it out."
"He's run into a drain. The usual end. What was the joke?" asked the nearest man. Rackham pulled out his yellow silk handkerchief, and twisted it round his throat. He was hot, and the air was clammy. With that, and his wild eyes, and his sandy moustache, he looked like a handsome bandit.
"It's turning cold," he said. "What? Didn't you hear the plaintive toot of a motor lying in wait for the man who sells pills? I'm morally certain the millionaire is feebly chasing his hunter round and round that big field with the mole-hills in it, miles and miles behind. I suppose the chauffeur had his orders; but it would be a charity to hint that following hounds is the worst way to pick up his master."
"Didn't somebody catch his horse?"