Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



half so crazily as the maniac I bestrode. In the first 

 hundred yards the field seemed to be chasing me instead 

 of the fox. The Master's astonishingly original vocabu- 

 lary made me blush to the ears; but unfortunately it 

 had no effect whatever on my pig-headed horse. Hounds 

 were scrambling across a bank, in a few strides more I 

 would jump clean into the midst of them, the bank 

 loomed bigger and bigger, I was powerless .... and 

 then the villain swerved. I forgave the knowing smiles 

 of the field as they swept past, but I didn't forgive the 

 cowardly culprit. I sent him at the bank again and was 

 soon forging to the lead. The Master's horse jumped 

 a bushed-up gap in front of me ; the whipper-in looked 

 aghast as he saw me thundering at it. I swore that 

 there would be no swerving this time; it would be over 

 it or through it. Through it we went like a tornado, 

 and carried the withered whitethorns half-way up the 

 next field. The next gap was decorated by a stout 

 ladder, but as this ladder evidently objected to tornadoes, 

 we fell over it instead. 



Remounting, I was again forging to the lead when I 

 saw the Master skim over a wide-looking river. My 

 horse seemed anxious for a drink, but began to change 

 his mind when he discovered it wasn't in a bucket. I 

 drove him on all the harder when I sensed his indecision, 

 and after futile efforts to swerve, he slithered into the 

 middle of the swollen torrent. I think he was a great 

 deal more surprised than I was, even though the water 

 was lapping my knees, and I felt the biggest fool in 

 Christendom. We scrambled out and galloped on and 

 tried to pretend we didn't mind; even though I felt 



16 



