158 THE IMAGE OF WAR 



We are to have the three-mile gallop to Catesby 

 back again, on a line parallel to that by which we 

 came. The ground is deeper than ever — the fences 

 as nasty. I saw one sportsman engulfed in a narrow 

 drain, and heard afterwards that it took an hour to 

 get his horse out. Still it is forrard, forrard ! Cates- 

 by is past, and Badby Village and Badby Wood is 

 reached again. Our fox is, of course, too hot to dwell 

 in the covert, but slips out at the bottom end and 

 crosses the valley. By Miller s Farm he turns short 

 back, keeping still to the east of the valley. I think 

 if I had known what a big place that was that 

 the huntsman gave me a lead over I should have 

 gone to look elsewhere. Ignorance, however, takes 

 the place of daring, and the good grey gives a kick 

 back that leaves the gulf-like ditch well behind us. 



Again our fox turns back, short of Newnham 

 Village. No one, however, can chronicle all the short 

 turns of a beaten fox, nor would they form inter- 

 esting reading. Suffice it to say we cross the Nene 

 (if it is the Nene that flows by Badby) several 

 times. 



At last the fox, who has already once been coursed 

 in view, turns again for Badby Wood. He cannot face 

 the hill, however, but betakes himself into a network 

 of cottage gardens and paddocks, where we cannot 

 follow. We have to clatter up the village street, and 

 turn in, in more or less military order, through the 

 arched gateway of a farmyard. As we file in we 

 become aware that our fox is at bay. Phenomenal 

 occurrence ! But not in the open, dear reader, but 

 under a movable hen-house on wheels, where no fox- 

 hound can creep in. The young master and some 

 willing assistants jump off. The hen-house — which, 



