CHASING AND RACING 115 



This trifle was founded on fact. It is not often 

 that a M.F.H. is hunted by his own hounds ; but 

 this happened to me. 



We had been to an outlying position of the East 

 Division of the country, and as I had an important 

 pubHc banquet to attend in London, I decided to go 

 with Bedford to the nearest L, & N. W. station — 

 which was about three miles from the point where we 

 had whipped off for the day — and book direct for 

 town, sending the pack back to kennel with Jack 

 Abel and his trustv men. 



I and my horseman-valet jogged along, but from 

 the ratings and whip-crackings we heard in our rear, 

 it was obvious that the little ladies — for it was the 

 bitch pack that had been drawn for the occasion — 

 were giving trouble in their desire to accompany me. 



All went well, however, until we were about a 

 quarter of a mile from the station. We then became 

 aware of most astonishing happenings. The pack 

 was in full cry, but the key of its tongue had a most 

 unaccustomed tone. As an accompaniment, human 

 voices, uttering curses loud and deep, were to be 

 heard, with an obligato of cracking whips, which went 

 off like pistol shots. Then, round the corner of the 

 road, some five hundred yards to our rear, poured the 

 beauties, going hell-for-leather, with the hunt servants 

 vainly endeavouring to get to their heads. In less 

 than a minute they were up, and all over me and my 

 horse — the latter was the true and tried Melbury 



