The Opening Run 



The Master swings out to the left of hounds and 

 choosing the spot where the sallys guarantee a firm 

 take-off, he sends his horse full tilt at the river. 



The fox is heading for the gorse on the hill, and on 

 the firm upland one has no time to observe the toll 

 taken by the river. The earth-stopper has checkmated 

 the fox, who runs through covert, hounds gaining 

 steadily, as the gorse holds every whiff of scent. He 

 hurries on frantically, anxious to regain the green fields, 

 the plough-land, sheep, cattle, manure-heaps, anything 

 that might help to leave his scent less potent. 



He needs to hurry, for his objective is two miles away. 

 Stone walls rattle behind him as a fury of dapples flashes 

 across them. A man in front lifts his hat on high as 

 he passes, signalling to the oncoming Master. A collie 

 dog views him; instantly he gives chase, coursing him 

 relentlessly. The collie is fat from indolence, and has 

 matted tufts of an unshed coat dangling about him. In 

 a battle of wits he would fare badly against the superior 

 fitness and stamina of an animal who has to hunt for 

 his food. The latter, however, has quite enough 

 diversions to cope with at the moment, and is in no way 

 inclined to provide a slimming lesson for an over-fat 

 collie. Nevertheless, the sheep-dog is gaining, and it 

 seems a matter of seconds before he rolls him over. 

 With a final burst of speed he reaches a bank- top, 

 mouthing at the brush. Reynard side-steps; the collie 

 hurtles into the next field, and a gallant old marauder 

 races on alone. 



Hound-music weakens behind the farmhouse. The 

 pack are brought to their noses. Hither and thither 



