“How long have you fellows been in?” he demanded of us, as he sat down and began to lug off his wet boots.
“Two hours,” replied Birch.
The little hero looked a trifle mortified to find he was so far behind, and we were quite sorry for him.
“Never mind,” he said, “I ran on the scent every inch of the way, and only pulled up once, at Wincot, for five minutes.”
“You did!” exclaimed one or two voices, as we all stared admiringly at this determined young hound.
“Yes; and a nice dance you gave a chap my size over the railway and across those ditches! But I didn’t miss a single one of them, all the same.”
“But what did you do at the canal?” asked Forwood.
“Why, swam it, of course—obliged to do it, wasn’t I, if the hares went that way? I say, is there any grub going?”
Plucky little Jim Barlow! After all, he was the hero of that “big hunt,” though he did come in two hours late.
This was the last big “hare and hounds” I ever ran in. I have many a time since ridden with a real hunt over the same country, but never have I experienced the same thrill of excitement or known the same exultation at success as when I ran home with Birch, two seconds ahead of the hounds, in the famous Parkhurst Paper-chase of 18 hundred and something.