COLONIAL AND AMERICAN HORSEMEN lyj 



about hunting, especially in the early part of the 

 day, as all men know who ride to hounds at home. 

 , . . . I had been told that we were to hunt a dingo, 

 or wild dog ; and there was evidently an opinion 

 that turning down a dingo — shaking him, I suppose, 

 out of a bag— was good and genuine sport. We do 

 not like bagged foxes at home ; but I fancy that they 

 are unpopular chiefly because they will never run. 

 If a dingo will run, I do not see why he should not 

 be turned down as well as a deer out of a cart. But 

 on this occasion I heard whispers about a drag. 

 The asseverations about the dingo were, however, 

 louder than the whispers about a drag ; and I 

 went on believing the hounds would be put upon 

 the trail of the animal. The huntsman was crabbed 

 and uncommunicative. The master was soft as satin, 

 but as impregnable as plate-armour. I asked no 

 questions myself, knowing that time will unravel 

 most things ; but I heard questions asked the answers 

 to which gave no information whatever. At last the 

 hounds began to stir among the high heather, and 

 were hunting something. I cared little what it was, 

 if only there might be no posts and rails in that 

 country. I like to go, but I don't like to break my 

 neck ; and between the two I was uncomfortable. 

 The last fences I had seen were all wire, and I was 

 sure that a drag would not be laid among them. 

 But we had got clear of wire fences — wire all through 

 from top to bottom — before v/e began. We seemed 



