CHAPTER II
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
The Cubs’ bare knees were splashed with mud as they pounded along the lane, looking out keenly for the little scraps of white paper that formed the “scent” of the hares.
“Phew!” panted one of the hounds, “I’m hot.”
“Stick—to—it!” panted back his pal.
“Are we downhearted?” called Jim Tate, the Sixer, as he had heard Tommies call out at the end of a long route march.
“No—o—o!” came the answer right down the road, for some Cubs were getting left behind.
But Danny, having lived all his life in London, had not done much in the way of long runs. He had got a bad stitch in his side almost at once, but remembering the second Cub Law—“A Cub does not give in to himself”—he had set his teeth, and determined to bear the pain, and not to give in. Then his legs began to ache as if they were ready to break. But he stuck out manfully. Finally his wind gave out.
“I’m done,” he gasped.
“No, you aren’t,” called his Sixer. “Here—hang on!” and he held out a hand to his recruit. “We shall get them, I bet. We’ve kept it up hot so far.”
Just then the white paper showed up a bank, and over the fence, into a field. With a howl the Cubs scrambled up the grassy bank, clinging to weeds and sticks and stones, and were soon in full cry across the grass. On they went, and through a hedge on to the road beyond. But there was no “scent” on the road; no paper showed on the brown mud.