178 A MEDLEY OF SPORT 



though of someone in dire distress, reached my ears, 

 and, turning in the saddle, I saw the old loafer with 

 head bowed down over his pony's neck, sobbing as though 

 heartbroken. I rode towards him, but at a gesture he 

 signed me not to approach nearer, and brokenly ex- 

 claimed, "Don't take any notice of me, sir, for I'm a 



weak fool; but the cry of those hounds reminded me of the 

 old home I left twenty-five years ago, and which I shall 

 never see again." Would the most eloquent sermon 

 ever preached from pulpit have touched the one soft 

 chord of that tough, world-beaten old heart, as did the 

 cry of that little pack of exiled foxhounds ? I am afraid 

 not. 



And now that the singing of the hounds has died away 

 I send my pony along at a smart canter, jump the wide 

 spruit that has to be negotiated ere the kennels are 

 reached, and ten minutes later draw rein before the 

 huntsman's bungalow. Having done justice to an 

 ample and appetising meal, I inspect the kennels, and 

 find as good-looking a little pack as any man would wish 

 to see, comfortably benched for the night. Then the 

 huntsman takes me to view the first litter of foxhound 

 puppies ever whelped in the Transvaal. " Ain't it a 

 lovely picture and all," exclaims Tom, as he gazes 

 fondly on the sleek and beautifully dappled little hounds 

 nestling up to their matronly-looking badger-pyed dam, 

 old " Amazon." Yes, it was a lovely picture, but, alas, 

 not one of that litter of eight ever lived to hunt either 

 " jack " or buck (there are no foxes in the Transvaal, 



