"The fox had crossed the bridge--for foxes do not care to swim a chilly
river any more than humans do--and from that point he had streaked away
southward as hard as he could tear. It is broken country, rolling
heaths, down one slope and up another, and it's hard to say whether the
up or the down is the more trying for the horses. This sort of
switchback work is all right for a cobby, short-backed, short-legged
little horse, but it is killing work for a big, long-striding hunter
such as one wants in the Midlands. Anyhow, it was too much for Parson
Geddes' seventeen-hand bay, and though he tried the Irish trick--for he
was a rare keen sportsman--of running up the hills by his horse's head,
it was all to no use, and he had to give it up. So then there were only
the huntsman, the whip, and Wat Danbury--all going strong.
"But the country got worse and worse and the hills were steeper and more
thickly covered in heather and bracken. The horses were over their
hocks all the time, and the place was pitted with rabbit-holes; but the
hounds were still streaming along, and the riders could not afford to
pick their steps. As they raced down one slope, the hounds were always
flowing up the opposite one, until it looked like that game where the
one figure in falling makes the other one rise.
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