Twang, twang, twang, still went
the horn; and when the huntsman reached the unicorn-crested gates, between
tea-caddy looking lodges, he found himself in possession of a clear
majority of his unsizable pack. Some were rather bloody to be sure, and a
few carried scraps of game, which fastidious masters would as soon have
seen them without; but neither Sir Harry nor his huntsman cared about
appearances.
On clearing the lodges, and passing about a quarter of a mile on the
Hardington road, hedge-rows ceased, and they came upon Farleyfair Downs,
across which Mr. Watchorn now struck, making for a square plantation, near
the first hill-top, where it had been arranged the bag-fox should be shook.
It was a fine day, rather brighter perhaps, than sportsmen like, and there
was a crispness in the air indicative of frost, but then there is generally
a burning scent just before one. So thought Mr. Watchorn, as he turned his
feverish face up to the bright, blue sky, imbibing the fine fresh air of
the wide-extending downs, instead of the stale tobacco smoke of the fetid
beer-shop.
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