The last two miles home were over a perfectly flat bit of country--so flat that the hounds would have us in view nearly all the way, and, consequently, to dodge or double would be simply useless.

Our only course was a straight hard run for it, trusting to our legs and our wind to pull us through.

So we settled down to the task with a will.

Scarcely had we emerged into the open ground for a couple of minutes, when we saw a figure dash out of the lane in full cry after us.
It was Forwood, the whipper-in, a terrible "scud" across country, and he was only fifty yards or so ahead of three others, also celebrated for their pace.

So we hares had our work cut out for us, and no mistake! For a mile we ran as hard as we well could, turning neither to right nor left, and halting neither at ditch nor dyke.