" Off to Gray's Holts. 33 157 



" ' " He's off, sir, to Gray's Holts. I know he is," shouted 

 Jack Yelland, the whip, as he called my attention to the 

 line of country the dog was then taking. That proved to 

 be the case. The fox had scarcely been ten minutes on 

 foot when the dog, either by instinct, or, as I believe, by 

 some power akin to reason, putting two and two together, 

 came to the conclusion that the real object of the fox was 

 to gain Gray's Holts, although the hounds were by no 

 means pointing in that direction. It was exactly as if the 

 dog had said to himself: " No, no, you're the same fox I 

 know that gave us the slip once before, but you're not 

 going to play us that trick again." 



" ' Tip's deduction was accurately correct, for the fox r 

 after a turn or two in covert, put his nose directly for 

 Gray's Holts, hoping, beyond a doubt, to gain that city of 

 refuge once more, and then to whisk his brush in the -face 

 of his foes. But in this manoeuvre he was fairly out- 

 generalled by the dog's tactics. Tip had taken a short 

 cut, the chord of the arc, and, as the hounds raced by at 

 some distance off, there I saw him,' continued Russell, 

 ' dancing about on Gray's Holts, throwing his tongue 

 frantically, and doing his utmost by noise and gesture to- 

 scare away the fox from approaching the earths. Perfect 

 success crowned the manoeuvre, the fox, not daring to face 

 the lion in his path, gave the spot a wide berth, while the 

 hounds, carrying a fine head, passed on to the heather, and 

 after a clinking run killed him on the open moor.' 



" Tip scarcely ever missed a day for several seasons, 

 never appeared fatigued, though he occasionally went from 

 fifteen to twenty miles to covert. He died at last from 

 asthma in the Chorley earths, Russell having dug up to him 

 and the fox in half-an-hour, but to his master's great grief 



