“Go and give your pigs their dinner,” shouted Heathcote.
Coote contented himself with running through the village with his tongue in his cheek, and in another three minutes the trio were beyond earshot and shaking the dust of Steg from their feet.
“How many miles now?” asked Coote, with a fine effort to appear unconcerned at the answer, which he put down in his own mind at six or seven miles.
“Three and a half, about—put it on, you fellows.”
It was a long trot along the springy turf outside Swilford Wood. Once or twice the scent turned in and got doubtful among the underwood, but it came out again just as often, and presently turned off on to the Heath.
Our heroes ploughed honestly through the bracken and gorse which tangled their feet and scratched their bare shins at every step. That mile over the Heath was the most trying yet. The hares seemed to have picked out the very cruellest track they could find; and when, presently, the “Firm” caught sight of the ruthless little patches of paper going straight up the side of Welkin Beacon, Coote fairly cried for quarter and announced he must sit down.
His companions, though they would not have liked to make the suggestion themselves, were by no means inexorable to the appeal.
“Why, we’ve hardly started yet,” said Dick, throwing himself down on the ground; “you’re a nice fellow to begin to want a rest!”
“Only just started!” gasped Coote; “I never ran so far in my life.”
“We came that last bit pretty well, considering the ground,” said Heathcote, anxious to make the halt as justifiable as possible.