“We want to get on the Sociables’ list,” blurted out the confiding Coote; “that’s why.”
Dick and Heathcote blushed up guiltily, and rushed their indiscreet chum off before he had time to unbosom himself further.
Cresswell, with the grin still on his honest face, turned into Freckleton’s study.
“By Jove! old man,” said he, “you’ll have a lot to answer for, the rate you’re going on. There are three youngsters—my fag Dick and his two chums—going to run this hunt through, because their names are not on your precious list. They’ll kill themselves.”
“Hurrah!” cried the Hermit. “I’m delighted—not, of course, about the killing, but I like spirit. I hope they’ll scramble through. Mark my word, Cress., those three partners will make their mark in Templeton yet.”
“They’re likely to make their mark at a coroner’s inquest,” said Cresswell. “Did you ever run in a twelve-mile hunt?”
“No, thank you,” said the Hermit. “Well, I only hope they’ll cool down before they go too far, that’s all,” said the whipper-in. “They don’t know what they’re in for.”
“They’re in for the ‘Sociables,’ and more power to them, say I,” said the Hermit. When Cresswell arrived at the meet, he found our heroes the centres of attraction to the crowd who usually assembled to see the hounds “throw off.”
They bore their honours meekly, and affected an indifference they were far from feeling to the chaff and expostulations which showered upon them from all sides.
“All show off!” cried Gosse. “They’ll sit down and have a nap under the first hedge, and make believe they ran it through.”