"Don't you believe it," interrupts Mr. Wilson with a laugh; "it would not pay me to mend you, for directly you got well you'd be dunning me for a subscription, and I might whistle for my fees. But look at Tom; he evidently thinks it is time to be moving. Who-ho, old lady" (to his horse), "who-ho," as old Tom, having got the signal, trots by with the pack, and, lifting his cap in response to the Doctor's greeting, says:
"Main glad to see you out, Doctor; hope we shall find a good 'un for you."
In a few minutes the hounds are thrown in, and Mr. Wilson finds himself with Mr. Halston (the clergyman) and Charles at a convenient corner of the covert. As bad luck will have it, though, the fox breaks away on the far side.
"Bless my soul, this is rough," exclaims the Doctor; "come on;" and putting old Ladybird at the fence he goes crashing through the wood, followed by his two companions. As they emerge on the other side they see the hounds streaming away some three fields off below them, and have the satisfaction of knowing that for once they have got as bad a start as could well be.
"It's for Blessington Osiers," says Charles. "If we cut across to the left and over the brook we shall hit it off."
"You are right, Charles," rejoins the Parson. "What do you say, Wilson?"
"For'ard on, then," replies the Doctor; and the trio gallop off almost in a contrary direction to the hounds. They negotiate the water in safety, and pull up by the side of the Osiers just as the hunted fox enters them. Charles rides off to the bottom end to view him through, and as Tom comes up with the pack his "Tailly-ho, for'ard a-w-a-i-y!" proclaims the fact that Reynard has not found Blessington a place of rest.
"Why, where the deuce have you arrived from?" is the universal question asked by all the field.
"Home," says the Doctor with a chuckle, as he sets Ladybird going now in her proper place--in the front rank--and swings over a nasty fence with a double ditch. As he lands on the other side he notices the Secretary's nephew, a young lad who is riding a chestnut that is evidently as much as the boy can manage, and as his eye falls on the stiff timber which appears at the far end of the field he wonders what will happen. "Don't go too fast at the rails, my boy," he says. "Steady. My G--d, what a smash!" as the impetuous brute rushes at the fence, and, breasting the top rail, turns a regular somersault, throwing the boy, luckily, clear of him.