Then we race and
tear up the slope; then the boy in the trap flaps the reins and away
goes the mare out of sight too.
Dickon is long and rawboned, a powerful fellow, strong of limb, and
twice my build; but he sips too often at the brown brandy, and after the
first burst I can head him. But he knows the hills and the route the
hare will take, so that I have but to keep pace. In five minutes as we
cross a ridge we see the game again; the hare is circling back--she
passes under us not fifty yards away, as we stand panting on the hill.
The youngest hound gains, and runs right over her; she doubles, the
older hound picks up the running. By a furze-bush she doubles again; but
the young one turns her--the next moment she is in the jaws of the old
dog.
Again and again the hounds are slipped, now one couple, now the other:
we pant, and can scarcely speak with running, but the wild excitement of
the hour and the sweet pure air of the Downs supply fresh strength. The
little lad brings the mare anywhere: through the furze, among the
flint-pits, jolting over the ruts, she rattles along with sure alacrity.
There are five hares in the sack under the straw when at last we get up
and slowly drive down to the highway, reaching it some two miles from
where we left it. Dickon sends the dogs home by the boy on foot; we
drive round and return to the village by a different route, entering it
from the opposite direction.
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