They had turned out fully half an hour ago to see the main body of the hunt go by, and just as they were returning regretfully to their ordinary occupations, the cry of "Three more of 'em!" came as a welcome reprieve, and brought them back into the highway in full force.
Fond of their joke were the friendly youth of Steg, and considering the quiet life they led, their wit was none of the dullest.
"Hurrah! Here's three more hounds!" "They's the puppies, I reckon." "Nay, one of 'em's got the rickets, see." "If they don't look to it, the hares will be round the world and catching them up." "Hi! Mister puppy, you're going wrong; they went t'other way." "Shut up!" cried Dick.
"Go and give your pigs their dinner," shouted Heathcote.
Coote contented himself with running through the village with his tongue in his cheek, and in another three minutes the trio were beyond earshot and shaking the dust of Steg from their feet.
"How many miles now ?" asked Coote, with a fine effort to appear unconcerned at the answer, which he put down in his own mind at six or seven miles.
"Three and a half, about--put it on, you fellows." It was a long trot along the springy turf outside Swilford Wood.

Once or twice the scent turned in and got doubtful among the underwood, but it came out again just as often, and presently turned off on to the Heath.
Our heroes ploughed honestly through the bracken and gorse which tangled their feet and scratched their bare shins at every step.

That mile over the Heath was the most trying yet.

The hares seemed to have picked out the very cruellest track they could find; and when, presently, the "Firm" caught sight of the ruthless little patches of paper going straight up the side of Welkin Beacon, Coote fairly cried for quarter and announced he must sit down.
His companions, though they would not have liked to make the suggestion themselves, were by no means inexorable to the appeal.
"Why, we've hardly started yet," said Dick, throwing himself down on the ground; "you're a nice fellow to begin to want a rest!" "Only just started!" gasped Coote; "I never ran so far in my life." "We came that last bit pretty well, considering the ground," said Heathcote, anxious to make the halt as justifiable as possible.
"I wonder where the hares are now ?" said Dick, rather pensively.
"Back at Templeton, perhaps," said Heathcote, "having iced ginger-beer, or turning into the 'Tub.'" "Shut up, Georgie," said Dick, with a wince.

"What's the use of talking about iced ginger-beer out here ?" They lay some minutes, each dreading the first suggestion to move.
Coote feigned to have dropped asleep, and Heathcote became intensely interested in the anatomy of a thistle.
Dick was the only one who could not honestly settle down, and the dreaded summons, when at last it came, came in his voice:-- "You lazy beggars," cried he, starting up, "get up, can't you?
and come on." Rip Van Winkle never slept more profoundly than did Coote at that moment.