THE BEST RUN I EVER SAW 37 



now, and we have been running nearly three-quarters 

 of an hour. We must kill soon. The only wonder to 

 me is how even such a gallant wild fox should have 

 stood up before hounds so long. 



The two leaders are pulling up and jumping off. 

 Killed 1 is my first thought ; but no, there go the pack 

 as hard as ever. I gallop down to them, and soon see 

 the cause of their getting off. The fence before them 

 is a stone-faced bank with a few loose-looking sods on 

 top. Before it runs a black-looking drain of some 

 width, and for some distance the other side the ground 

 is obviously boggy. 



My right foot is out of the stirrup to dismount, 

 when it suddenly occurs to me, why shouldn't I trust 

 the old horse ? No cleverer hunter ever was foaled 

 in Ireland ; it is soft falling at the worst, and if I do it 

 I shall be alone with the hounds. 



So thinking, I cram him manfully at it. Lightly he 

 changes his legs on the top of the fence, and, clever as 

 a cat, drops into the far field clear of the worst of the 

 bog. Truth to tell, he does flounder a bit on landing, 

 for forty-five minutes will tell on the best of condition, 

 but I pull him together and skirt the steep hill before 

 me. The other three, who have safely led over, are 

 in hot pursuit. 



A minute or two more and we come to a grassy lane 

 closed by a hog-backed stile. It is small enough, but 

 the old horse rattles it all round. The exit from the 

 lane consists of another stile a foot higher than the 

 former one. 



"Bouse him up, Snafile," shouts T B , who 



is close behind. For the first time that day the old 

 horse feels the spur, and he bounds over the obstacle 

 with nearly a foot to spare. A few yards on is a high- 



