THE BEST RUN I EVER SAW. 31 



bog. Truth to tell, he does flounder a bit on landing, 

 for forty- five minutes will tell on the best of condition, 

 but I pull him together and skirt the steep hill before 

 me. The other three, who have safely led over, are in 

 hot pursuit. 



A minute or two more and we come to a grassy 

 lane closed by a hog-backed stile. It is small enough, 

 but the old horse rattles it all round. The exit from 

 the lane consists of another stile a foot higher than the 

 former one. 



"Rouse him up, Snaffle," shouts T B , who 



is close behind. For the first time that day the old 

 horse feels the spur, and he bounds over the obstacle 

 with nearly a foot to spare. A few yards on is a high - 

 road. We emerge on it to find ourselves right among 

 the hounds, who have checked at last. I pull out 

 my watch ; they have been running exactly fifty-two 

 minutes. 



The Master has his horn out directly, but his first 

 forward cast across the road is fruitless. No wonder, 

 for there is a small brook, by the side of which stands 

 a fly-fisher, trying to look unconscious at the evil he 

 has done. 



Let us draw a veil over the Master's feelings and 

 language. No harm was meant, and after all men 

 have a right to fish as well as hunt perhaps more in 

 April. The mischief was done, the fox was headed, 

 and the run was practically over. 



To be sure, the now necessary back-cast hit off the 

 line, but the scent was cold. There was no more 



