LATE AUTUMX. 519 



the fling of a thoroughbred horse is the loose easy bound of a 

 fox at half-speed. There is a latent, idle, power in his leisurely 

 stride that tells of resources kept in reserve, and bids us 

 remember what he can do when the pinch shall come when 

 the scent shall be breast high, and the goal forty minutes away. 

 To the third debutant the master sounded his horn ; and some 

 twenty couple of the bigger ladies of Kenilworth were sent to 

 the front. Gladly they took to the task ; and now we had to 

 realize that they and we were hunting the fox. For my 

 part, I realised it very quickly, and realised, moreover, that this 

 was Warwickshire not Hampshire, where last my hunting 

 lines were cast. For there was no way out of the second field. 

 With discretion almost akin to wisdom or at any rate first 

 cousin to parsimony or cowardice I had already sent horses 

 home and betaken myself to a pony. Else had my craven heart 

 lacked the moral pluck (excellent term that for " craning " ) to 

 stand aside, when the huntsman galloped up to the low strong 

 timber, and went on. So we rode round by the nearest gate, 

 and the next, and many more striking hounds again as they 

 crossed the Hillmorton Road by Bilton Grange and betook 

 themselves over the country to Bilton Village. Incident in 

 plenty was there by the way; as there always is, could one 

 but catch up and rechauffer it in appetising form. How 

 we cheered a thirteen-hand pony as, hampered with no ac- 

 coutrement bat his own shaggy wool, he took a fifteen-hand 

 gate in his stride how we took liberties with a padlocked gate, 

 and craved permission (with inclosure) by the evening's post ; 

 how we watched with keen delight the old Fitzwilliam and 

 Belvoir bitches cast for themselves beyond a dusty fallow how 

 we spurred bloodred to reach a turnip-field across a Dunsmore 

 ditch all these were part and parcel of a pleasant scamper, and 

 helped to mark the minutes of glow and jollity. And the cub 

 beat us when we reached Bilton Grange again, though he had 

 found earths closed in his face as he travelled round. He will 

 be a good fox yet. Blood enough was then found, in a brace of 

 young foxes from the turnip fields. 



