THE REV. JOHN RUSSELL. 285 



cry increases ; they run merrily, and we are 

 high in hope. 'Ware fox ! ' says a M.F.H. 

 the best sportsman in the west, as he views 

 Charley slinking along towards the gap on the 

 hedgerow. Then, with his stentorian voice, he 

 calls out to Sam, ' Your hounds are on a fox, 

 Sam.' Sam does not hear, but rides up within 

 a hundred yards of us. 'What, sir?' 'Your 

 hounds are on a fox, Sam,' repeats the M.F.H. 

 'Think not, sir,' says Sam; 'my hounds won't 

 hunt fox!' 'I tell you that they are on a fox, 

 Sam ; call them off,' says the foxhunter. Sam 

 looks vicious, but he obeys, saying in a voice 

 which could be heard by the Master of Fox- 

 hounds, but certainly not by the tufters, 'Get 

 away, hounds, get away; ain't you ashamed of 

 hunting of a stinking little warmint not half 

 the size of vourselves ? Get away ! ' Sam still 

 maintains his creed that his tufters were not 

 on the fox, and two minutes afterwards a yell 

 announced that a different sort of animal was 

 afoot. Another tally ; Tom Webber's voice ; 

 a guarantee that it is the right thing, for the 

 good yeoman is the best and truest stag-hunter 

 that ever cheered a hound. Every one is on 

 the alert ; we ride forward, and presently in 

 the distance, view, not a stag, alas ! but a 

 hind breaking towards the moor. ' How is this, 

 Tom ? You were wrong for once.' ' No, sir ; 

 not L I'll swear it was a stag, and a good 



