CHASING AND RACING 95 



was a momentary check on the road where His Nibs, 

 having cocked an eye on George's buff coat, had 

 doubled on his tracks and then broken across the open 

 again. This gave me time to change on to Uncle Ben, 

 who was very much on his toes. On White's informa- 

 tion I halloed the hounds, nipped over the road hedge, 

 and swung the pack in a semi-circle over the field. 

 Trimmer, my show hound, and Wrangler, a son of 

 the immortal Belvoir Weathergauge, struck the line 

 simultaneously and signified the same in the usual 

 manner. Away flew the pack, " Haik to Trimmer, 

 Haik to Wrangler, forr'ard, forr'ard my beauties, 

 push him along Yoi Blossom ! Yoi Wedlock ! Yoi 

 Sampson," as each took the lead only to be headed by 

 the next ! I was now away with the hounds by 

 myself, and felt exultantly puffed up. How selfish 

 some of us are ! I was sorry for the field, though the 

 survivors led by Wilson were well within hail. After 

 seven minutes of glorious galloping and jumping I 

 was faced by an obstacle which I hate and loath like 

 poison, a bull fence, vulgarly known as a " bullfinch." 

 It was set on a rotten bank. I charged it with my arm 

 over my face. Uncle Ben burst half through it then 

 became straddled on the beastly bank, where he 

 remained struggling and see-sawing ; what time I 

 quietly slipped off his back and pulled his hind- 

 quarters free. But by this time hounds were well out 

 of sight, though I could hear their music in diminuendo 

 in the distance. There was nothing left but to follow 



