"Have at him, there! Ha-a-ve at him, good lads!"
Again! again! those are the musical deep voices of the slow hounds! They
have a dash in them of the old Southern breed! And now! there goes the
yell! the quick sharp yelping rally of those two high-bred bitches. By
heaven! they must be viewing him! How the woods ring and crash!
"Together hark! Together hark! Together! For-ra-ard, good lads, get
for-a-ard! Hya-a-araway!"
Well halloaed, Harry! I could swear to that last screech, out of ten
thousand, though it is near ten years since I last heard it! But
heavens! how they press him! Hang it! there goes a shot--the squire has
fired at him, as he tried the earths! Now, if he have but missed him,
and Pan, the god of hunters, send it so, he has no chance but to try the
open.
By Jove he has! he must have missed! for Bonny Belle and Blossom are
raving half a mile this side of him already. And now Tom sees him--how
quietly he steals up to the fence. There! he has fired! and all our
sport is up! No! no! he waves his hat and points this way! Can he have
missed? No! he has got a fox!--he lifts it out by the brush--there must
have been two, then, on foot together.
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