quickly, dashing down a ride to the right, while a host of those
who know that he is one of them who like it, follow closely at
his heels, too closely, as he finds at the first fence out of
the woods, when one of his young admirers almost jumps on the top
of him. " Do you want to get into my pocket, sir?" he says,
angrily. The young admirer is snubbed, and, turning away,
attempts to make a line for himself.

But though he has been followed, he has great doubt as to his own
course. To hesitate is to be lost, so he goes on, on rapidly,
looking as he clears every fence for the spot at which he is to
clear the next; but he is by no means certain of his course.
Though he has admirers at his heels who credit him implicitly,
his mind is racked by an agony of ignorance. He has got badly
away, and the hounds are running well, and it is going to be a
good thing; and he will not see it. He has not been in for
anything good this year, and now this is his luck! His eye
travels round over the horizon as he is gallopping, and though he
sees men here and there, he can catch no sign of a hound; nor can
he catch the form of any man who would probably be with them. But
he perseveres, choosing his points as he goes, till the tail of
his followers becomes thinner and thinner. He comes out upon a
road, and makes the pace as good as he can along the soft edge of
it. He sniffs at the wind, knowing that the fox, going at such a
pace as this, must run with it. He tells himself from outward
signs where he is, and uses his dead knowledge to direct him. He
scorns to ask a question as he passes countrymen in his course,
but he would give five guineas to know exactly where the hounds
are at that moment. He has been at it now forty minutes, and is
in despair. His gallant nag rolls a little under him, and he