Tlic ntchford run. 43 



right to make liis own draw, and so on went the 

 majority with him, and soon saw a fox found in the 

 dingle there that had the hounds tied to his brush down 

 to Cound Mill, and just as we thought he was going 

 over the railway to give us a sharp chase, he disappeared 

 into a big pipe drain. A young sportsman keen, but 

 not alway discretionary, doubted the fact, wdiereupon 

 Thatcher, not given to betting, offered to stake his 

 year's wages on it. This caused his opponent's betting 

 book to return to his pocket instanter. There was 

 nothing for it but to trot to Golding Coppice, and there 

 we had as pretty a find as possible. Lackily the field 

 were not so much spread about, or as unruly as usual, 

 and the fox got, I thought, well away right handed at 

 the bottom of the covert. A boggy brook at the end 

 of the second field caused fun, and some grief, while 

 hounds ran like wildfire to Eaton Mascott Dingle, and 

 then turned up to the left. Whether some extra speedy 

 ones managed to out-gallop both fox and hounds, and 

 head the former, I don't know, but before he reached 

 the head of it he was made mincemeat of — a second 

 unlucky bit of business. Two scrambling '' no-goes," 

 of ten minutes each. Nothing daunted, on we went 

 to Pitchf ord Hall. The day had improved. It was 3-30 

 p.m., and Colonel Cotes quietly suggested that his 

 terrier sliould be invited to try a drain within a field of 

 the hall. So in he went. I had had scarcely time to 

 admire a Chippendale yearling when — *' By Jove, he is 

 at home," and out he pops, as nice and healthy a fox as 

 ever w^as seen. He scarcely has a hundred yards start 

 as the hounds race him in view into the big wood. 

 With what a crash they send him to the top end. In 

 trying to get away he is headed by some men at work in 

 the field, and back we go over the dingle, and down the 

 other side. Ah, now we are really away at the bottom 

 corner to the right, and pointing for the Lawley for a 

 few fields. Now swinging to the left, w^e skirt Sir 

 Frederick Smythe's model farm, and his clean cut fences 

 are nice jumps — over his private drive, and still bending 

 left-handed nearly to Steven's Hill, where we cross the 

 Cressage Road, for Harnage Grange, and point for the 

 higher ground, Bull Hill, I think it is called. How 



