knows that he has been going too fast. And for what; for what ?
What good has it all done him ? What good will it do him, though
he should kill the beast ? He curses between his teeth, and
everything is vanity and vexation of spirit.

"They've just run into him at Boxall Springs, Mr. Jones," says a
farmer whom he passes on the road. Boxall Springs is only a
quarter of a mile before him, but he wonders how the farmer has
come to know all about it. But on reaching Boxall Springs he
finds that the farmer was right, and that Tom is already breaking
up the fox. "Very good thing, Mr. Jones," says the squire in good
humour. Our friend mutters something
between his teeth and rides away in dudgeon from the triumphant
master. On his road home he hears all about it from everybody. It
seems to him that he alone of all those who are anybody has
missed the run, the run of the season! " And killed him in the
open as you may say," says Smith, who has already twice boasted
in Jones's hearing that he had seen every turn the hounds had
made. " It wasn't in the open," says Jones, reduced in his anger
to diminish as far as may be the triumph of his rival.

Such is the fate, the too frequent fate of the man who hunts and
does like it.





THE LADY WHO RIDES TO HOUNDS.