Echoes of the Hunting Horn 



in the field on my left. Further beyond, the Lady 

 Master's chestnut and the Master's grey were taking 

 their own line. 



I used to think that horses in a drag-hunt followed 

 the line of the drag as obediently as railway waggons 

 follow the engine ! There wasn't much one-track 

 business about this drag-hunt. People were taking their 

 own line, carving their own destiny. A glance over 

 my shoulder showed that the fences were having a word 

 to say regarding the carving of some destinies. Three 

 loose horses behind suggested that some of the fences 

 had won their arguments. 



Three wide drains, a hedge and then an up-bank 

 landed me once more into another turnip field and I 

 was as much alone as a certain famous film star ever 

 wanted to be. I cursed myself for being all sorts of an 

 amadan. Here I was, a stranger, alone, lost in the 

 heart of an unknown countryside. If I fell into a ditch 

 I could be there for weeks ! The fact that the tongue 

 of the hounds had been guiding me for the past few 

 minutes was poor consolation now. I couldn't hear a 

 sound ! To the broad acres of County Dublin I broad- 

 cast the most impolite autobiography as I pounded 

 along in my despair. Why the dickens hadn't I kept with 

 the crowd ? Why the mischief hadn't I kept near 

 someone who knew the country ? Why hadn't I circled 

 away to the left with the others instead of belting away 

 on my own behind hounds ? I could hear them even 

 after they crossed the hill, but now .... not a sound 

 .... not a sound .... and then a hound spoke and 

 I patted my horse's neck in a caress of exultation. 



68 



