192 "no time for a breather yet. 



cast, and a warm moist springy feeling in the air : a hunting 

 morning, indeed, or I am much mistaken. 



The Cottesmore are at Burton, and temptation is strong in 

 that direction, but Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher, Millie, and I went 

 our way to join Mr. Fernie's pack at Horninghold ; Millie on 



• Curling Pin,' and I with a new quad, between my knees and 



• Week End ' in reserve. 



Of Horninghold one never expects great things, as the 

 proportions of the field testify this morning, but in February 

 foxes are strong, and you may find a stranger who has come 

 from afar; if so, look out for a bit of fun. Of such calibre 

 undoubtedly was the big sandy fellow, who stood so gallantly 

 before Mr. Fernie's bitch pack this memorable day. But to 

 my story. 



It is barely a quarter-to-twelve, as in full view of the field 

 our pilot shakes the inhospitable dust of Hegg Spinney from 

 his brush, and sets his mask for the Stockerston Woodlands. 

 Hardly promising, this ! and many of us take our time as 

 Thatcher lays his hounds on the line, and they disappear over 

 the brow to the left of the Uppingham Road. But we're wrong 

 to-day, though ; for, by the time Muckleborough Spinney is 

 behind us, the pack are crossing the brook into Cottesmore 

 territory, and w^e bustle along on the certainty of catching 

 them in Wardley Wood or Stoke End, as we have done many 

 a time before. 



But no, by jove ! they hesitate a moment below Beaumont 

 Chase, and before we have time to make up the ground they 

 are over the brow and heading for Uppingham, with Thatcher 

 and a few lucky ones in close attendance. You cross the 

 Turnpike to the left of the town, and after another mile catch 

 them at Glaston, cursing your stupidity for a run lost. But 

 calm yourself my friend, this is merely the beginning, and 

 you'll be glad of that extra bit in hand before many more 

 miles are put behind. There is no time for a breather yet, for 

 hounds have turned sharp to the left, and there is the road and 

 bottom ahead ; a gate leads from the former, and two more 

 fences bring us down to the latter, where for a moment the 

 bitches look like giving us the slip. A practicable place is 

 quickly found, and Thatcher gives us the office over the rails 

 and water, and then another mile of good going and easy 

 fences bring us up to Preston. So far the pace has been good, 

 and hounds have come along with hardly a check ; they pause 



