24 HUNTING RECOLLECTIONS. 



Tabor's big field, where we have a check; not 

 for long, however, as Mr. Carnegie hits off the 

 line " like a workman," as he is, and Duster cuts 

 out the work for the pack, pointing for West 

 Barrow Hall and the Eastwood Water 

 Meadows. She does not enter these, however, 

 but turns sharp to the left, past Mr. Stallibrass' 

 residence, and its " ding dong," as hard as you 

 can, to keep pace with the " dappled darlings." 

 Away we go over the road, pointing for Mr. 

 Allerton's, scent good and fences blind; from 

 there straight for Chalkwell Hall. We are now 

 running with the sea in view, and what our good 

 fox means to do she must soon determine. But 

 what is that beat figure near the water's edge? 

 Why our hunted fox ! Another minute, and the 

 Southend Railway is the only thing betw^een her 

 and her pursuers. A turn inland by the beach, 

 a double over the line of rail, and we are in the 

 Hamlet Brickfields at Southend. A scurry 

 round the bricks, a snap, a growl, and Duster 

 has her at the hedge, and its all up with as game 

 a little two-year-old vixen as ever was cubbed. 

 Well done, Mr. Carnegie. You have tasted 

 blood in Rochford Hundred, and there's plenty 

 more foxes left that will feel hurt if you don't 

 hunt them, or they will all die of " fatty degener- 

 ation." Let them have plenty of that good old 

 physic, " Essex Union Anti-fat," in the shape of 

 frequent doses of fox hounds' music to dance to 

 — no one will complain of its strength and fre- 

 quency. To resume, after we had broken up 

 our fox we drew some cole seed at Eastwood 

 and West Barrow without a find. Then we just 



