Parkhurst Boys | Page 8

have foundered? No! Another shout! That means he is safe over, and
hard at our heels.
For the last three hundred yards we run a regular steeplechase. The
meadows are intersected with lines of hurdles, and these we take one
after another in our run, as hard as we can. Only one more, and then we
are safe!
Suddenly I find myself on my face on the grass! I have caught on the
last hurdle, and come to grief!
Birch in an instant hauls me to my feet, just as Forwood rises to the
leap. Then for a hundred yards it is a race for very life. What a shouting
there is! and what a rushing of boys and waving of caps pass before our
eyes! On comes Forwood, the gallant hound, at our heels; we can hear
him behind us distinctly!
"Now you have them!" shouts one.
"One spurt more, hares!" cries another, "and you are safe!"
On we bound, and on comes the pursuer, not ten yards behind--not ten,
but more than five. And that five he never makes up till Birch and I are

safe inside the school-gates, winners by a neck--and a neck only--of
that famous hunt.
The pack came straggling in for the next hour, amid the cheers and
chaffing of the boys. Three of them, who had kept neck and neck all the
way, were only two minutes behind Forwood; but they had shirked the
swim, and taken the higher and drier course--as, indeed, most of the
other hounds did--by way of the bridge. Ten minutes after them one
other fellow turned up, and a quarter of an hour later three more; and so
on until the whole pack had run, or walked, or limped, or ridden
home--all except one, little Jim Barlow, the tiniest and youngest and
pluckiest little hound that ever crossed country. We were all anxious to
know what had become of this small chap of thirteen, who, some one
said, ought never to have been allowed to start on such a big run, with
his little legs. "Wait a bit," said Forwood; "Jim will turn up before long,
safe and sound, you'll see."
It was nearly dusk, and a good two hours after the finish. We were
sitting in the big hall, talking and laughing over the events of the
afternoon, when there came a sound of feet on the gravel walk,
accompanied by a vehement puffing, outside the window.
"There he is!" exclaimed Forwood, "and, I declare, running still!"
And so it was. In a minute the door swung open, and in trotted little Jim,
dripping wet, coated with mud, and panting like a steam-engine, but
otherwise as self-composed as usual.
"How long have you fellows been in?" he demanded of us, as he sat
down and began to lug off his wet boots.
"Two hours," replied Birch.
The little hero looked a trifle mortified to find he was so far behind,
and we were quite sorry for him.
"Never mind," he said, "I ran on the scent every inch of the way, and
only pulled up once, at Wincot, for five minutes."

"You did!" exclaimed one or two voices, as we all stared admiringly at
this determined young hound.
"Yes; and a nice dance you gave a chap my size over the railway and
across those ditches! But I didn't miss a single one of them, all the
same."
"But what did you do at the canal?" asked Forwood.
"Why, swam it, of course--obliged to do it, wasn't I, if the hares went
that way? I say, is there any grub going?"
Plucky little Jim Barlow! After all, he was the hero of that "big hunt,"
though he did come in two hours late.
This was the last big "hare and hounds" I ever ran in. I have many a
time since ridden with a real hunt over the same country, but never
have I experienced the same thrill of excitement or known the same
exultation at success as when I ran home with Birch, two seconds ahead
of the hounds, in the famous Parkhurst Paper-chase of 18 hundred and
something.
CHAPTER THREE.
THE PARKHURST BOAT-RACE.
"Adams is wanted down at the boat-house!" Such was the sound which
greeted my ears one Saturday afternoon as I lolled about in the
playground at Parkhurst, doing nothing. I jumped up as if I had been
shot, and asked the small boy who brought the message who wanted
me.
"Blades does; you've got to cox the boat this afternoon instead of
Wilson. Look sharp!" he said, "as they're waiting to start."
Off I went, without another word, filled with mingled feelings of
wonder, pride, and trepidation. I knew Wilson, the former coxswain of
the school boat, had been taken ill and left Parkhurst,