The pistol sent the hounds away. They did not attempt to run
fast. Captain Dick Prescott's orders were against that. The
hounds moved away at an easy lope, for there were miles yet to
be covered. Six miles, in fact, is more than average High School
boys of the lower classes can make at a cross-country jog.
A go-as-you-please gait was therefore allowed. Either hare or
hound might walk when he preferred.

But for the first five minutes the hounds, who divided into three
squads almost immediately, moved along at an easy jog. Every
eye was alert for the first sign of a paper trail. There were
six upper classmen running with the hounds. Ben Badger was somewhere
ahead, hiding in order not to betray the trail. But, when he
had been passed, Badger would jump up and run with the hounds,
making the seventh judge.

"I wonder if we've a ghost of a show to win," muttered Tom Reade.

"Every show in the world---until we're beaten!" replied Dick,
doggedly. "It isn't in the Gridley blood to wonder if we can
win---we've got to win!"

After that Dick closed his lips firmly. He must save his wind
for the long cross-country.

On the left the runners were now in a field. The center was moving
along the highway, the right wing being in a field over beyond.

"Wow-oo! wow-oo! wow-oo!" sounded a deep, far-away chorus.