28 GUN, RIFLE, AND HOUND. 



and there, at the far end of the field, are the tail 

 hounds striving hard to join the body of the pack. 



It is ride, now. Already Bob , the gentleman 



rider, has shot to the front on a thoroughbred. 

 Presently we see the pack, close enough to be covered 

 with the proverbial sheet, rising a slope. They are 

 still a good bit in front. My old brown horse, the 

 Leprechaun, has a season's condition and old corn 

 to fall back on, but I am not going to press him. 

 Steadily, steadily he gallops on, throwing his fences 

 behind him almost without an effort. On, on, on. 

 Grass fields, mostly big, and fences alone mark our 

 course, while still, well in front of us all, the pack are 

 fleeting along almost mute. 



By Jove ! how they do run ! Not a hover, let 

 alone a check, has lessened their speed since they left 

 the brookside. Now I am on a piece of slightly 

 higher ground, and have the whole panorama before 



me. Close to the hounds is Bob , with my friend 



T B in close attendance. A field behind is 



the Master, his four-hundred-guinea hunter fencing as 

 if the sixteen stone odd on his back was a fleabite. I 

 am still a field behind him ; behind me to my right is 

 a stranger, a Lifeguardsman, who generally hunts with 

 a neighbouring pack. Further back still I see one 

 other sportsman, but where are the field ? Echo 

 answers, where ? 



I lean forward and pat the old horse's neck. 

 " Steady, old man, this can't last. They must come 

 back to you. They've been running now for five- 

 and-twenty minutes." 



