TEE STAVERTON RUN 319 



The vixen was allowed an open earth ; and the round thicket, 

 about as big as a billycock, was disturbed afoot, while the pack 

 sat up at a distance. When allowed within, they were through 

 in a second at the brush of a traveller. And the great mass of 

 Ted, white, and black took action at once — dividing right and 

 left, going wrong and going right. Staverton Wood o'erhung 

 the left flank, and hounds woke its hollow precipice with 

 liveliest music, in the cold still air. You might very easily 

 secure a bad start — a chance, indeed, that is seldom missing 

 when a great crowd is bent, each atom, upon besting the rest. 

 •Gates just wide enough for a shepherd's pony, hedges uncut 

 and unbroached, a situation half grasped, and wits rather 

 startled than awakened — a story half told, a good thing nearing 

 its expected point— all these, or other foolery, may set a man 

 going in the wrong direction in the first vital minutes of a 

 gallop. For my part (and I retain the pronoun entirely for 

 :such instance of warning and absurdity) the first definite sign 

 I could see to guide me, after an idiotic detour round the 

 "wrong side of the spinney and a crush through three gates, 

 -was a short tail w r agging against the horizon — a tail that I 

 •could swear to, as cut in Harboro' and trimmed to a Leicester- 

 shire breeze — a tail that I might safely believe, a tail of truth, 

 a stump of veracity. It even took me off the broadway that 

 was carrying the main torrent noisily into Staverton Village, 

 and well-nigh took me, moreover, into a ditch while an erring 

 gate declined to be unhasped. The tail gave a parting flick, as 

 it disappeared in the offing ; and my venture was now endorsed 

 and encouraged by the company of some veteran pioneers. 

 Hounds had twisted under Staverton Wood, and were making 

 for that of Badby. Hotly we rode, and heartily we struggled, 

 while grass gave us every chance and the sturdy fences were 

 yet plain sailing. So, mercifully, the stern chase was only of a 

 few minutes. It ended, to all appearance, by prearrangement — 

 as it may often have been, if men be believed, when The Baron 

 exhausted a spurt with the stag. Not our Baron now, but a 

 Knight of high degree — tried in field and proven in action. 



