dash along in her track.  Pussy fails fast; one dog reaches her, and she shrieks as she feels his ferocious jaws touch her; but he snatches only a mouthful of fur, and there is another respite.  Then at last one of the pursuers balances himself carefully, his wicked head is raised, he strikes, and the long tremulous shriek of despair is drowned in the hoarse crash of cheering from the mob.  Brave sport, my masters!  Gallant Britons ye are!  Ah, how I should like to let one of you career over that field of death with a brace of business-like boarhounds behind you!

There is no slackening of the fun, for the betting-men must be kept busy.  Men grow frantic with excitement; young fools who should be at their business risk their money heedlessly, and generally go wrong.  If the hares could only know, they might derive some consolation from the certainty that, if they are going to death, scores of their gallant sporting persecutors are going to ruin.  Time after time, in monotonous succession, the same thing goes on through the day—­the agonized hares twirl and strain; the fierce dogs employ their superb speed and strength; the unmanly gang of men howl like beasts of prey; and the sweet sun looks upon all!

Women, what do you think of that for Englishmen’s pastime?  Recollect that the mania for this form of excitement is growing more intense daily; as much as one hundred thousand pounds may depend on a single course—­for not only the mob in the stands are betting, but thousands are awaiting each result that is flashed off over the wires; and, although you may be far away in remote country towns, your sons, your husbands, your brothers, may be watching the clicking machine that records the results in club and hotel—­they may be risking their substance in a lottery which is at once childish and cruel.

There is not one word to be said in favour of this vile game.  The old-fashioned courser at least got exercise and air; but the modern betting-man wants neither; he wants only to make wagers and add to his pile of money.  For him the coursing meetings cannot come too often; the swarming gudgeons flock to his net; he arranges the odds almost as he chooses—­with the help of his friends; and simpletons who do not know a greyhound from a deerhound bet wildly—­not on dogs, but on names.  The “sport” has all the uncertainty of roulette, and it is villainously cruel into the bargain.  Amid all those thousands you never hear one word of pity for the stricken little creature that is driven out, as I have said, for execution; they watch her agonies, and calculate the chances of pouching their sovereigns.  That is all.