RUNNING FROM CARNI'.TT'^ 



411 



ride over hairy ditches and yawning gulfs, but solely for the purpose of 

 catching a crafty animal with the aid of high-couraged and pure-bred 

 hounds. The task is beyond nie, so I can only jot down in irregular 

 sequence what is after all but a blurred outline of the day's sport, though 

 on the following day there was nothing to mar the brief retrospect. 



I could hear the deep-throated chorus of the merciless bitches as fox 

 after fox was driven from his lair in Garnett's leafy groves. The " Gone 

 away " from tv/o different parts of the covert still rings in my ears, and 

 across my vision passed, like a ilashing beacon, the stalwart form of the late 

 Master, as he galloped forward to the distant echo of the huntsman's horn, 

 and the black-and-tan pack came sweeping back two fields away, as we 

 cleared the covert. Nor would the huntsman admit of a check as he urged 



A. R. Steele 



his good little black over the drop into the meadow, and clapped hounds 

 forward to where Mr. Ridley, hat in air, cut the sky line. I could see 

 hounds own to it now, and note how one, two, three, four of us converged 

 to the spot over which the huntsman had flown. It was a narrow bank, 

 and the ditch lay wide beyond, but Miss Jones skimmed it like a swallow, 

 swiftly followed by her father, and then hounds threw up as we jumped 

 into a lane. 



Bright shone the sun through the fence beyond, but still in a straight 



