BEDRIDDEN. 493 



Suddenly the unsavoury plaything is dropped ; the ruling spirit, 

 of many a generation's inheritance, asserts itself; down go 

 their noses together ; and a new pastime bids for their whole 

 attention. The trail of a rabbit has crossed their course ; in a 

 moment they stoop and swing and are away on the line. 

 Bunny is not far off; and soon is to be seen scuttling across the 

 meadow Warwickshire and Pytchley alike scoring loudly in 

 his wake. " Have a'at him, little bitches ! " I'll ride to your 

 tuneful voices yet, where the grass is gayest and the fences 

 are fairest. Make the most of your holiday, my puppies. 

 The kennel cart may be round for you any day now and. 

 believe me, the early stages of hound discipline are not one 

 whit sweeter or gentler than a boy's first school-term (miserable 

 memory). 



Sauntering hither some half an hour later, their noses all 

 plastered with sand to tell the tale of their chase the 

 puppies fling themselves down, to bask and rest in the happy 

 sunshine. They have long learned to take only a passive 

 interest in the career of the colts, now being sent lustily over a 

 chain of easy fences culminating at the lawn. So they trouble 

 themselves not at all as two puffing grooms go by, for approval 

 or correction, according to master's temper or progress. On 

 the present occasion these latter are let off with a mild request 

 for repetition "both spurs in, and drop it on to his left 

 shoulder as he rises if you can " (of course they can't but a 

 flourish may do something if it doesn't unseat them). And 

 round they come again both horsemen attaining the lawn well 

 in advance of their saddles. " Capital, that will do. Don't 

 come through the window." Better than boardship, did I say ? 

 Ay, better by far than catching sharks from the sternwalk, or 

 hooking albatross in the vessels foaming wake (the two most 

 exciting phases I know of sport at sea) a million times better 

 than that ghastly game of " bull." 



Ah ! what is it, Portly ? what puts your bristles up and your 

 stern down ; and why throw your tongue in anger and fear ? 

 Are my eyes playing me false ? or what sickbed phantasy is 



