The only incident worth recording here, however, was the first run at
hare-and-hounds. On the last Tuesday but one of the half-year, Tom was
passing through the hall after dinner, when he was hailed with shouts
from Tadpole and several other boys. They were seated at one of the long
tables; the chorus of their shouts was, “Come and help us tear up
scent.”
[Illustration: THOMAS HUGHES]
Tom approached the table in obedience to the summons, always ready to
help, and found the party engaged in tearing up old newspapers,
copy-books, and magazines into small pieces, with which they were
filling four large canvas bags.
“It’s the turn of our house to find scent for Big-side hare-and-hounds,”
exclaimed Tadpole. “Tear away; there’s no time to lose.”
“I think it’s a great shame,” said another small boy, “to have such a
hard run for the last day.”
“Which run is it?” said Tadpole.
“Oh, the Barby run, I hear,” answered the other. “Nine miles at least,
and hard ground; no chance of getting in at the finish unless you’re a
first-rate runner.”
“Well, I’m going to have a try,” said Tadpole.
“I should like to try, too,” said Tom.
“Well, then, leave your waistcoat behind, and listen at the door, after
roll-call, and you’ll hear where the meet is.”
After roll-call, sure enough, there were two boys at the door, calling
out, “Big-side hare-and-hounds meet at White Hall.” And Tom, having
girded himself with leather strap, and left all superfluous clothing
behind, set off for White Hall, an old gable-ended house some quarter of
a mile from the town, with East, whom he had persuaded to join. At the
meet they found some forty or fifty boys; and Tom felt sure, from having
seen many of them run at football, that he and East were more likely to
get in than they.
After a few minutes’ waiting, two well-known runners, chosen for the
hares, buckled on the four bags filled with scent, compared their
watches with those of young Brooke and Thorne, and started off at a
long, swinging trot across the fields in the direction of Barby. Then
the hounds clustered round Thorne, who explained shortly: “They’re to
have six minutes’ law. We run into the Cock, and every one who comes in
within a quarter of an hour of the hares will be counted, if he has been
round Barby church.”
Then comes a pause of a minute or so, and then the watches are pocketed,
and the pack is led through the gateway into the field which the hares
had first crossed. Here they break into a trot, scattering over the
field to find the first traces of the scent which the hares throw out as
they go along.
The old hounds make straight for the likely points, and in a minute a
cry of “Forward” comes from one of them, and the whole pack, quickening
their pace, make for the spot. The boy who hit the scent first, and the
two or three nearest to him, are over the first fence, and making play
along the hedgerow in the long-grass field beyond. The rest of the pack
rush at the gap already made, and scramble through, jostling one
another. “Forward” again, before they are half through; the pace
quickens into a sharp run, the tail hounds all straining to get up with
the lucky leaders.
They are gallant hares, and the scent lies thick right across another
meadow and into a ploughed field, where the pace begins to tell; then
over a good hedge with a ditch on the other side, and down a large
pasture studded with old thorns, which slopes down to the first brook.
The brook is a small one, and the scent lies right ahead up the opposite
slope, and as thick as ever. Many a youngster now begins to drag his
legs heavily, and feel his heart beat like a hammer, and those farthest
behind think that after all it isn’t worth while to keep it up.
Tom, East, and Tadpole had a good start, and are well along for such
young hands. After rising the slope and crossing the next field, they
find themselves up with the leading hounds, who have overrun the scent
and are trying back. They have come a mile and a half in about eleven
minutes, a pace which shows that it is the last day. Only about
twenty-five of the original starters show here, the
[Illustration: THE START]
rest having already given in. The leaders are busy making casts into the
fields on the left and right, and the others get their second winds.
Then comes the cry of “Forward” again from young Brooke, at the extreme
left, and the pack settles down to work again, steadily and doggedly,
the whole keeping pretty well together. The scent, though still good, is
not so thick. There is no need of that, for in this part of the run
every one knows the line which must be taken, and so there are no casts
to be made, but good downright running and fencing to be done.
All who are now up mean coming in, and they come to the foot of Barby
Hill without losing more than two or three more of the pack. This last
straight two miles and a half is always a vantage-ground for the hounds,
and the hares know it well. They are generally viewed on the side of
Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the lookout for them to-day. But not a
sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for the hounds, and
there is nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is the
hares’ turn, and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the next two
miles.
Ill fares it now with our youngsters that they follow young Brooke; for
he takes the wide casts round to the left, conscious of his own powers,
and loving the hard work. However, they struggle after him, sobbing and
plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole some thirty yards
behind.
Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly
drag their legs; and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched
Tadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left in
themselves to pull up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and
another check, and then “Forward” called away to the extreme right.
The two boys’ souls die within them. They can never do it. Young Brooke
thinks so, too, and says kindly, “You’ll cross a lane after next field;
keep down it, and you’ll hit the Dunchurch-road.” Then he steams away
for the run in, in which he’s sure to be first, as if he were just
starting. They struggle on across the next field, the “Forwards” getting
fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The whole hunt is out of
ear-shot, and all hope of coming in is over.
“Hang it all!” broke out East, as soon as he had wind enough, pulling
off his hat and mopping his face, all spattered with dirt and lined with
sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold air. “I
told you how it would be. What a thick I was to come! Here we are dead
beat, and yet I know we’re close to the run in, if we knew the country.”
“Well,” said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment, “it
can’t be helped. We did our best, anyhow. Hadn’t we better find this
lane, and go down it as young Brooke told us?”
“I suppose so--nothing else for it,” grunted East. “If ever I go out
last day again,” growl--growl--growl.
So they turned back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and
went limping down it, plashing in the cold, puddly ruts, and beginning
to feel how the run had taken the heart out of them. The evening closed
in fast, and clouded over, dark, cold, and dreary.
“I say, it must be locking-up, I should think,” remarked East, breaking
the silence; “it’s so dark.”
“What if we’re late?” said Tom.
“No tea, and sent up to the Doctor,” answered East.
The thought didn’t add to their cheerfulness. Presently a faint halloo
was heard from an adjoining field. They answered it and stopped, hoping
for some competent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some twenty
yards ahead crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse. He had
lost a shoe in the brook, and been groping after it up to his elbows in
the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the shape of a boy
seldom has been seen.
The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degree
more wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was now no longer
under the dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so in
better heart, the three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At
last it widened, just as utter darkness set in, and they came out on to
a turnpike road, and there paused, bewildered, for they had lost all
bearings, and knew not whether to turn to the right or left.
Luckily for them they had not to decide, for lumbering along the road,
with one lamp lighted, and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a
heavy coach, which after a moment’s suspense they recognized as the
Oxford coach, the redoubtable Pig and Whistle.
It lumbered slowly up, and the boys, mustering their last run, caught it
as it passed, and began scrambling up behind, in which exploit East
missed his footing and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the
others hailed the old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed
to take them in for a shilling. So there they sat on the back seat,
drubbing with their heels, and their teeth chattering with cold, and
jogged into Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up.--THOMAS HUGHES.