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,
while 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 to 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
wattle with a ditch on the other side, and down a large pasture studded
with old thorns, which slopes down to the first brook. The great
Leicestershire sheep charge away across the field as the pack comes
racing down the slope. The brook is a small one, and the scent lies
right ahead up the opposite slope, and as thick as ever--not a turn or
a check to favour the tail hounds, who strain on, now trailing in a long
line, many a youngster beginning to drag his legs heavily, and feel his
heart beat like a hammer, and the bad-plucked ones thinking that after
all it isn't worth while to keep it up.
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