38 THE IMAGE OF WAR 



road. We emerge on it to find ourselves right among 

 the hounds, who have checked at last. I pull out my 

 watch ; they have been running exactly fifty-two 

 minutes. 



The Master has his horn out directly, but his first 

 forward cast across the road is fruitless. No wonder, 

 for there is a small brook, by the side of which stands 

 a fly-fisher, trying to look unconscious at the evil he 

 has done. 



Let us draw a veil over the Master's feelings — and 

 language. No harm was meant, and after all men 

 have a right to fish as well as hunt — perhaps more in 

 April. The mischief was done, the fox was headed, 

 and the run was practically over. 



To be sure, the now necessary back-cast hit off the 

 line, but the scent was cold. There was no more 

 galloping ; cantering, and sometimes even trotting, 

 kept us with the hounds for the next twenty minutes, 

 while they patiently worked out the line. At the end 

 of that time they marked him into a hole, which 

 looked like a rabbit-burrow, in a gorsy hillside. Who- 

 whoop ! 



We all jumped ofl*, though our horses had now 

 pretty well recovered their wind. The Master looked 

 covetously at the earth, but there is (or should be) no 

 digging in April. We all agreed that it was a thousand 

 pities hounds should loose their well-earned blood, but 

 then again it was as well so gallant a fox should live 



" To run again another day," 



and perchance to "teach the young idea how to" run 

 also. Personally, I greatly doubt a fox being able 

 to survive so terrific a burst. The run was in every 

 way satisfactory. It was due to the Master's know- 



