374 LEAVES FROM A HUNTING DIARY 



drop out of the field over the ditch into the road sharp over 

 the strong white bridge — a good colour on a dark night when 

 the brook is in full flood — and with " Mind the colts," and 

 " Last man through — (it wasn't me) — shut the gate," and we 

 wormed our way round the big pond in the meadow as the 

 hounds streaked through the fence, over the steep bank on 

 the left. 



Exchanging grass for plough, we struck the main road 

 above the rectory by Mr. Chaplin's farm. Mr. Sewell, missing 

 the gate, had to take the drop over the rail, and left the road 

 by jumping the high bank out, hounds racing on for Magdalen 

 Laver Hall over a succession of well-drained pastures. Just 

 short of the Hall my mate viewed him as he made his last 

 turn, and with a yell of " Yo-onder he goes'' as he toiled along 

 under the hedge, weary and travel-stained, his doom was 

 sealed: and within sight of High Laver Hall, far away from 

 any covert or earths, this robber of hen-roosts, this disturber 

 of good housewives' rest, paid the penalty of his thievish 

 propensities. Five and thirty minutes over a country we 

 rarely cross, and one of the best lines that could possibly 

 have been selected. Not a yard of wire if you stuck to the 

 pack, sir, whatever some who were thrown out may have 

 to excuse themselves on that score. Seven miles as hounds 

 ran, five as the crow flies ; you can't make it less ; you couldn't 

 want more. No wonder then that the hot, flushed faces of 

 those who had struggled to the end beamed and bubbled with 

 joy — 14 all told, including the Hunt servants, and none of 

 them strangers, if you will look at the list : — The Master, 

 Bailey, and Jack, Mr. Chaffey-Collin, Messrs. W. and G. 

 Sewell, Capt. Wilson, Mr. Charrington, Mr. C, Savill, Mr. 

 Fowler, Mr. A. Pelly, Mr. J. Felly, Mr. Newman Gilbey. 



Last Monday, at Havering, a heavenly day for riding about, a tearing 

 scent with a good fox from Mrs. Mcintosh's gorse to Hogg Hill, through 

 Mr. F. Green's grounds, over a blackguardly country — excuse strong 

 language, but the ploughs were awful, no fences, wire around the Forest. 

 Programme : two men stand on it while the huntsman and a few more 

 jump it, until a pair of hind legs hook it up again. So up to Lambourne 

 End, back to the Forest, to the gorse, to the shrubberies, for a kill, all 

 within the hour : 150 entertained at an al-fresco luncheon by Mrs. 

 Mcintosh (these are the sort of luncheons that are popular). Nothing 

 less than going head over heels into a pond — while his horse drank as if 

 he had not tasted any liquid for a week — would satisfy the thirst of a 

 well-known tradesman from Romford. One more incident, and I have 

 done with Monday. 



Nothing gives me greater pleasure than recording how, when the 

 occasion ayises, the Old Guavd can give the young guard a stone and a beating. 



