BOBBIE DAWSON. 93 



was evident by the fox's abnormal size that it had been poisoned, 

 and Bobbie made a great stir in the matter, saying he thought they 

 were all better bred in Bilsdale. I was present at the time, and noticed 

 that Bobbie did not make so much lamentation when his mother died." 



Jorrocks averred when breaking up a Handley Cross fox 

 that he did not love the fox the less, but loved the hounds 

 the more. Now it is a strange fact that Dawson, great as 

 was the old man's affection for the chase, and everything 

 appertaining thereto, was altogether irrational in the manner 

 he displayed it. He starved his hounds, he starved his 

 horses, and withal he starved himself. He fastened up the 

 pack when he went to a meet, because of the emaciated 

 condition of some of them, and would allow no one 

 to go and look at them, vowing there " were yan o' 

 tweea despert savage day veils amang 'em." The two 

 or three couples which trailed along close to his horse's 

 heels were usually shamefully poor, as was the horse itself. 

 Indeed, often he would have got along much better without 

 it, for the furious fun of the chase seemed to have little 

 fascination for him. I frankly admit I cannot quite come 

 to an accurate deduction wherein that fascination did lay. 

 He certainly loved to see hounds work, but he could not bear 

 to kill a fox. He spent most of the day walking with his 

 pony's bridle over his arm, relying upon his wonderful 

 knowledge of the routes of foxes to get him to his hounds 

 again when they ran with their quarry on foot. I have often 

 heard how, when the pack were running hard in one direction, 

 Bobbie was slowly leading his pony in another, his old hounds, 

 which rarely left him, and spent their days fastened to staples 

 near his back door when not hunting, following on behind, 

 ever and anon speaking to the line. Yet eight times out 

 of ten he managed to get to them again. One can 

 perhaps hardly reconcile all this with the picture one 

 would naturally paint of an old enthusiast who was 

 born into the chase, lived in and breathed the atmosphere 

 all his long life, and was eventually buried in it. Yet this 

 was the real Bobbie — a strange mixture, a strange combina- 

 tion of contradictions. Let me now give a few stories re- 



