necessities of this history may be found the justification of the
chapter.

The Quarry Wood had not failed. Larry's fox had been in it. To Larry,
seated on his stout, bay cob, with a heart banging against his ribs,
and a soul absorbed into a single supplication, had come, suddenly and
beautifully, the answer to prayer, the ineffable spectacle of a large
and lovely fox, sliding quietly away, at the right place, at the right
moment. Life could offer Larry no more; not then, at all events.

"_My_ coverts--_my_ fox!"

Not many boys of sixteen, enthusiasts, endowed with just that touch of
the poetic temperament that can set the brain reeling, could know a
more wondrous moment.

Then to see Cousin Dick, blazing and splendid, charging out of the
wood, "like the man on the red horse in Revelation," as Christian said
afterwards--(Christian had sneaked away from Charles, the coachman,
and had followed Larry)--with the hounds flashing around and ahead of
him, and Cottingham's rasping "Forrad! Forrad!" from the wood behind,
like the blast of a bellows upon flames!

Larry had been past speech when that apocalyptic vision had
materialised in response to his halloa. He had waved his hat and
cheered the hounds to the line of the fox, but it had been
unnecessary; they had not had an instant's uncertainty, and had taken
hold on their own account without reference to anyone.

That the hold taken by the hounds was a firm and assured one was due,