HUNTING 215 



to disturb her, ye see." I never encountered an 

 obstacle like that on any other occasion, when 

 engaged in hunting. 



Old Robert Allen was full of dry humour, but 

 always had the politeness of a courtier. There is 

 a tale about him true, for I heard it myself which 

 has found its way into more than one sporting 

 paper, generally incorrectly told. 



We had met one day at a well-known spot 

 called Bushy Bratley, and deer had been harboured 

 some four or five miles away in Lord Normanton's 

 coverts, to the westward. We had a long trot, 

 then a tuft singled out a fine buck, and laid on 

 hounds. The deer had laid down within half a 

 mile in some thick furze, and the pack fresh found 

 him, and got away close on his back. They fairly 

 raced him for the four miles or so straight back 

 to the very place of meeting, where he ran right 

 into the arms of the late Colonel Martin Powell, 

 a very regular follower of deer-hunting, but one 

 who preferred to accommodate his hunting hours 

 to his own convenience. He had, in fact, arrived 

 at the fixture just at the moment when we got 

 back there in full cry, having trotted a long way 

 to find our deer, and, after that, run some twenty- 

 five minutes at best pace back again. 



Off went the Colonel's hat exhibiting, like the 

 farmer in Whyte-Melville's delightful song, " a grin 



