They could not long keep up the fiction of being in the hunt. No amount of self-deception could persuade them, when the end of the straggling line of fellows going up the ridge was a clear half-mile ahead, that they were in it. Still every minute they held on they felt more like staying, and when they reflected that it was possible to run through the hunt without being in at the death, they took comfort, and determined Templeton should not say they had turned tail.
“We shall have to follow the scent now,” said Dick, when the pack suddenly disappeared to view over the ridge. “Thank goodness, it’s all white paper, and plenty of it. Come on, you fellows, we’ll run it through yet.”
“I feel quite fresh,” said Coote, mopping his head with his handkerchief. “How far do you think we’ve gone—six miles?”
“Six! we’ve not done a mile and a half yet.”
Coote put away his handkerchief, and gave the buckle of his running drawers a hitch; and the “Firm” settled down to business.
Having once found out their pace, and got their second wind, they felt comparatively comfortable. The scent lay true up the ridge, and as they rose foot by foot, and presently breasted the bluff nor’-wester, they felt like keeping it up for a week.
“Hullo, I say,” cried Georgie, when the top of the ridge was gained, “there they go right under us; we might almost catch them by a short cut.”
“Can’t do it,” said Dick, decisively. “We’re bound to follow the scent, even if the hares doubled and came back across this very place.”
“Would real harriers do that?” asked Coote. “If I was a real harrier, and saw the hare close to me, I’d go for him no matter what the scent was.”
“All very well, you can’t do it to-day—not if you want to get on the list,” said Dick. “They’ve taken a sharp turn, though, at the bottom.”