“Should have met her if she had,” observed old Duffield.
“She must be somewhere hereabouts,” observes Mr. Trail, dismounting, and stamping about on foot among the half-trodden straw of the fold-yard.
No puss there.
“Hard upon the hounds,” observes Mr. Wotherspoon, replenishing his nose with a good charge of snuff.
“Cruel, indeed,” assented the Major, who never gave them more than entrails.
“Never saw a hare better hunted!” exclaimed Captain Nabley, lighting a cigar.
“Nor I,” assented fat Mr. Nettleford, mopping his brow.
“How long was it?” asked Mr. Rintoul.
“An hour and five minutes,” replied the Major, looking at his watch (five-and-forty minutes in reality).
“V-a-a-ry good running,” elaborates old dandy Wortherspoon. “I see by the Post, that——”