side of the hut a few scattered men loaf in a purposeless way.  Presently a red-coated man canters across the smooth green, and then the diabolical tumult of the stands reaches ear-splitting intensity.  Your betting-man is cool enough in reality; but he likes to simulate mad eagerness until it appears as though the swollen veins of face or throat would burst.  And what is going on at the closed end of that blind lane?  On the strip of turf around the wide field the demure trainers lead their melancholy-looking dogs.  Each greyhound is swathed in warm clothing, but they all look wretched; and, as they pick their way along with dainty steps, no one would guess that the sight of a certain poor little animal would convert each doleful hound into an incarnate fury.  Two dogs are led across to the little hut—­the bellow of the Ring sounds hoarsely on—­and the chosen pair of dogs disappear behind the shrubs.  And now what is passing on the farther side of that door which closes the lane?  A hare is comfortably nestling under a clump of furze when a soft step sounds near her.  A man!  Pussy would like to move to right or left; but, lo, here are other men!  Decidedly she must move forward.  Oh, joy!  A swinging door rises softly, and shows her a delightful long lane that seems to open on to a pleasant open country.  She hops gaily onward, and then a little uneasiness overtakes her; she looks back, but that treacherous door has swung down again, and there is only one road for her now.  Softly she steals onward to the mouth of the lane, and then she finds a slanting line of men who wave their arms at her when she tries to shoot aside.  A loud roar bursts from the human animals on the stand, and then a hush falls.  Now or never, pussy!  The far-off barrier must be gained, or all is over.  The hare lowers her ears and dashes off; then from the hut comes a staggering man, who hangs back with all his strength as a pair of ferocious dogs writhe and strain in the leash; the hounds rise on their haunches, and paw wildly with their fore-feet, and they struggle forward until puss has gone a fair distance, while the slipper encourages them with low guttural sounds.  Crack!  The tense collars fly, and the arrowy rush of the snaky dogs follows.  Puss flicks her ears—­she hears a thud, thud, wallop, wallop; and she knows the supreme moment has come.  Her sinews tighten like bowstrings, and she darts on with the lightning speed of despair.  The grim pursuers near her; she almost feels the breath of the foremost.  Twitch!—­and with a quick convulsive effort she sheers aside, and her enemy sprawls on.  But the second dog is ready to meet her, and she must swirl round again.  The two serpentine savages gather themselves together and launch out in wild efforts to reach her; they are upon her—­she must dart round again, and does so under the very feet of the baffled dogs.  Her eyes are starting with overmastering terror; again and again she sweeps from right to left, and again and again the staunch hounds