68 The Teteott Hunt CXleek. 



blue clay this time. I am becoming a highly 

 decorated work of art, for in passing through a 

 thick copse huge brambles tear my cheeks and 

 streak them with red, and an inky purple is running 

 down my forehead from a soaked hat, that has 

 assumed the shape of a *' Beefeater's." 



And what can I expect in return for all this annoy- 

 ance ? Scent must surely be drowned, as was the Irish- 

 man's whisky, when " some mischavious person had 

 poured a lot of wather on top of it." Still it was, he 

 hoped, to be got at near the bottom of his glass. 

 But the hounds, I fear, will not to-day get at a taste 

 or touch of scent, as more water is being continually 

 poured on it. Hounds' noses must be completely 

 stuffed up with water ; let them sneeze as they will. 

 It is water, water everywhere. It runs down the 

 nape of my neck, it falls from my hat to the saddle, 

 and from saddle and overcoat glides beneath my 

 knees and into my boots, which are becoming like a 

 pair of full water cans. I must empty them on the 

 first opportunity. There is a gate before me, which 

 has to be unbound. I get down to do this, and as 

 there is no one near — if the field were trying to keep 

 away from me, they could not do so more effectually 

 — I cast myself down on the wet spongy ground, 

 and kick up my heels in the air. But the water will 

 not leave me. It merely passes from one part of me 

 to another. From my boots it glides along my 



