A CHOKING FINISH. 123 



A CHOKING FINISH. 



Dusty, oppressive, and hot as was Monday, April 2nd, it 

 credited the month with a run that would have graced any 

 part of the season's calendar. It had opened with a meet of 

 the Quorn at Egerton Lodge, Lord Wilton's picturesque 

 hunting box at the entrance to Melton Mowbray ; and Melton 

 being now the junction point of so many railways, it is not to 

 be wondered at that visitors trooped in from distant quarters 

 for this, the final, and almost annual, show meet of the Quorn, 

 Yet, for all that the season is so nearly over, there was no giant 

 muster of riders — the reason probably being that the rapidly 

 hardening ground has been putting stables to a sorer trial than 

 all the deep going of the past winter. And among those who 

 came out there came a summery, jaunty style of dress and de- 

 portment altogether out of keeping with the serious occupation 

 of foxhunting as it absorbs us in midwinter. Light tweed coats- 

 had in many cases taken the place of pink, and thin cord did 

 the work of buckskin. Faces flushed hotly under the burning- 

 sun, even during the easy saunter to a noonday meet ; and the 

 rosebud of spring fashion became a full-blown flower ere the 

 buttonhole had carried it half the day. Men talked of a New- 

 market future rather than a Melton present ; and steeplechasing, 

 not unnaturally, was a still more general topic. For had we- 

 not among us to-day — for the second year in immediate suc- 

 cession—a Leicestershire hunting-man, the rider and owner of 

 the winner in the greatest of steeplechasers 1 Last year it was 

 Lord Manners ; while this year, Count Kinsky, who owes all his 

 quickness over a country to his Melton experience, had returned 

 to undergo, at the hands of his fellow comrades, a shower of con- 

 gratulations as hearty — and probably as welcome — as any his 

 well- won victory will have called forth. Among the townsfolk 

 of Melton, who to a man, woman, or child had turned out to the 

 meet, the hero of The Liverpool was an object of quite as 

 general an interest as even the hounds. So crowded was the- 

 main street and the paddock opposite Egerton Lodge, that it 



