230 IRiMno IRecoUections an^ ^urt Stories 



fence to where he lay when I found him. There 

 was not a particle of dirt on his coat, but his hunt- 

 ing-cap was split (at the button on the top) in four 

 places, just as if you had tried to smash it with a 

 coal hammer. Of course, his huntino- was over for 

 that season, and I, with many others, thought for 

 ever ; but it only shows of what good material he 

 was made, as he rallied, and not only hunted Mr. 

 Tailby's hounds several seasons after that, but was 

 huntsman to the Royal Buckhounds for fifteen years 

 subsequently. This I have had every reason to be 

 thankful for, and he always said he owed his life 

 to the nursing of my dear old mother and myself 

 The only return he could make me was to offer me 

 the best room in his house at the Kennels for the 

 Ascot Race Week, which I accepted, and many times 

 have we talked over the fall, and other and more 

 agreeable subjects, riding our runs over again, to 

 the delight of my brother professional jockeys and 

 trainers, who have spent many pleasant evenings in 

 Frank Goodall's house during his time in office as 

 the Queen's Huntsman. 



No one was more sorry than myself when they 

 insisted upon Goodall's retiring, after having done 

 more to bring the pack of hounds to perfection than 

 anyone had ever done before him. I can speak 



