CHASING AND RACING 97 



Next day I received a furious letter from my 

 brother Irwin, who upbraided me, in no measured 

 terms, for not having whipped off before entering 

 Scratch Wood, and sending the long tails far and wide 

 over the surrounding country. He said that on the 

 day following our raid, he had fixed up a big shoot in 

 honour of a certain distinguished General, who was 

 his guest, and that now I had upset the whole apple- 

 cart. Furthermore, he threatened to cut me out of 

 his will (I am his next-of-kin and legal heir), leaving me 

 with a very dilapidated boot to put my foot in. Now, 

 although I place fox-hunting well in front of pheasant 

 shooting, or for the matter of that any other form of 

 sport with the gun, I am not averse from such diversions 

 and enjoy the burning of villainous saltpetre, or its 

 nitric substitute, especially if accompanied by a boon 

 companion, a clever retriever, and a pointer, setter, or 

 tireless spaniel. So that I had some understanding of 

 my brother's wrath. He hated hunting like poison, 

 and, of course, did not understand the difficulties in 

 which I was placed. In the first place it would have 

 been utterly impossible for my whippers-in to get to 

 the head of the pack, screaming and driving full steam 

 ahead on a burning scent. Had there been the 

 semblance of a check I could have lifted them to the 

 far side of the pheasant preserve (as I was confident 

 that the fox would go right through and sink the 

 valley) and have slipped them on to the line. But there 

 was no such check — thank our lucky stars ! It was 



H 



