Speculation was set at rest next morning when, immediately after morning school, they appeared in their knickerbockers and running shoes and bare shins.
“Hullo!” said Cresswell, who was the first to encounter them in this trim, “are you youngsters going to have a little run of your own?”
Cresswell was in running costume, too—a model whipper-in—determined to do his part in the long afternoon’s work which he had cut out for himself and his Harriers.
“We’re going to run in the big hunt,” said Dick, modestly.
“What!” said the senior, laughing; “do you know what the run is?”
“About twelve-miles, isn’t it?” said Coote, glad to air his knowledge.
“Yes. I’m afraid it will be hardly worth your while to take such a short trot,” said Cresswell, with a grin.
“We’re going to try,” said Dick, resolutely. “Who are the hares, Cresswell?”
“Swinstead and Birket; good hares, too. But, I say, youngsters, you’d better not make asses of yourselves. If you like to come the first mile or two, all right, but take my advice and turn back before you’re too far from home.”
“We’re going to run it through,” said Dick, “if we possibly can.”