"Can't you head 'em off, Patsey? Run, you fool! _run_, can't you?"

Sounds followed that suggested the intemperate use of Mr. Freddy
Alexander's pocket-handkerchief, but that were, in effect, produced by
his struggle with a brand new hunting-horn. To this demonstration about
as much attention was paid by the nine couple of buccaneers whom he was
now exercising for the first time as might have been expected, and it
was brought to abrupt conclusion by the sudden charge of two of them
from the rear. Being coupled, they mowed his legs from under him as
irresistibly as chain shot and being puppies, and of an imbecile
friendliness they remained to lick his face and generally make merry
over him as he struggled to his feet.

By this time the leaders of the pack were well away up a ploughed field,
over a fence and into a furze brake, from which their rejoicing yelps
streamed back on the damp breeze. The Master of the Craffroe Hounds
picked himself up, and sprinted up the hill after the Whip and Kennel
Huntsman--a composite official recently promoted from the stable
yard--in a way that showed that his failure in horn-blowing was not the
fault of his lungs. His feet were held by the heavy soil, he tripped in
the muddy ridges; none the less he and Patsey plunged together over the
stony rampart of the field in time to see Negress and Lily springing
through the furze in kangaroo leaps, while they uttered long squeals of
ecstasy. The rest of the pack, with a confidence gained in many a
successful riot, got to them as promptly as if six Whips were behind
them, and the whole faction plunged into a little wood on the top of
what was evidently a burning scent.