A FOXHUNTING JOURNAL 191 



fast-disappearing pack. The weeping women wept no 

 more; the brave men thanked their lucky stars that, as 

 yet, no Dry Agents have pursued their calling in the hunt- 

 ing-field. 



Tuesday, 28th December, 1920 

 If Dave Sharp had been hunting hounds to-day, and if 

 Harry Harrison was his whipper-in once more, as they 

 were in the good old days of John Valentine's regime at 

 Radnor, I 'm quite sure history would have repeated itself 

 and another chapter been added to the annals of foxhunt- 

 ing in Pennsylvania, for it was cold enough and windy 

 enough to congeal that unmentionable part of the anatomy 

 of the proverbial brass monkey. 



As the brass monkey is now passe and Dave Sharp quite 

 the contrary, I'll try to tell the story before we go further 

 with the doings of to-day. 



John Valentine did n't take his field into covert with his 

 huntsman and hounds, as some Masters we have seen 

 do, but kept his field in a convenient place where, should 

 hounds go away, they could get to them by the time hounds 

 were nicely settled on the line of their fox. Well, on this par- 

 ticularly cold and windy day, John had his impatient and 

 shivering field on a hilltop overlooking a certain covert 

 not far from Malvern, while his huntsman, David, and his 

 hounds drew the wood. No fox was viewed out the upper 

 corner; not a hound spoke; not a sound was heard; and 

 John was having a bit of trouble keeping some of his more 

 thrusting followers in hand. Fifteen minutes, half an hour, 

 and even John was getting cold and fidgety by now; so he 

 sent Harry Barclay into covert to see if hounds had by any 

 chance slipped out the other side unseen. But, after wait- 

 ing another fifteen minutes with no signs even of Harry 



