THE CALPE HUNT. 327 



dozen feet below. Both of us were soon up again, 

 and a hasty look round having convinced me that there 

 was no other place, I made for the rock again. A 

 vigorous dig of the spurs resulted in a successful, if 

 rather slithering, effort. 



A few minutes more brought us to the edge of 

 the table-land just as the Master and second Whip 

 appeared at the other edge, riding towards me. Hounds 

 had evidently circled towards me, but where were 

 they ? A bay and some growling solved the question. 

 Their fox had got to ground at the bottom of a deep 

 hollow between us, the said hollow hiding them from 

 our sight. 



" Who-whoop ! Who-whoop ! " 



A minute brought up the rest of the field seven 

 in all. 



" Where are we ? " asked somebody. 



" Why, this is close to the Higueron!" was the 

 answer. 



An eight-mile point some minutes under the three- 

 quarters of an hour. Good enough for the Shires ! 



Yes, there, not far before us, lay the Mediterranean. 

 Our run had taken us almost from sea to sea. Of course 

 there was no chance of realising our fox. The pick 

 and crowbar brigade were many a mile away. All we 

 could think of was the way home. The midwinter 

 day was drawing to a close. We made for the First 

 Tower on the Eastern Beach. From thence it was plain 

 sailing. El Cuerpo* lay before us, sharply outlined 

 against the evening sky. 



* The Corpse the Spanish name for the Rock of Gibraltar. 



