THE BEST EUN I EVER SAW 33 



throughout to help you talk of '^ the run" for the 

 rest of your life. Now let me turn to my old 

 diaries and see if I can find you a run which 

 answers all the above requirements. Ah ! here 

 we are. 



No, I'm not going to tell you the name of the 

 pack. As in my time I have hunted with more 

 than ninety packs, it will, I think, be a little dijB&- 

 cult for any of my friends to identify it without 

 my assistance. From the Cottesmore to the Coniston, 



from the Meath to the ; but it's hard to say which 



is the most scratch of the many Irish scratch packs : 

 you may take your choice. 



It was in April, late for hunting, but March had 

 opened with a fortnight's frost, and the season was 

 backward. The day was fine and pleasant, with 

 just a touch of sharpness in the air to help us to 

 forget that the next meet advertised ended with 

 those ominous words, '*to finish the season." 



The meet was at Bridge, an old stone struc- 

 ture spanning a boggy brook which flowed through 

 a narrow valley. Many of the field had assembled 

 thereon when the hounds arrived, so the Master, 

 who hunted the hounds himself, stopped on the 

 bridge. It was only just eleven o'clock. Presently 

 an old hound got over the wall and commenced 

 feathering up a boggy bit leading towards a small 

 covert of gorse and rushes, the ground between 

 which and the bridge was unrideable bog. 



"Stop him," cried the Master; "get off and stop 

 him." 



A whip jumped off and went into the field. Two or 

 three more hounds took this as a signal to join the 

 first. 



