THE OLD PACK 39 



gone. The where is hardly doubtful, for a 

 furlong on begins a wood, one of the many 

 with which the country is dotted. They 

 must be there, we argue, and spur our 

 sobbing nags into a canter. As we progress 

 they catch their wind by degrees. 



Right ! the old oaks shake with the 

 melody with which the pack are driving 

 their fox through the woodland. Let us 

 hope they haven't changed. We are able 

 to siive our horses as they work their way 

 along parallel with the ride we are on, and 

 still we get to the far end first. " Whoa, 

 fool, vot are ye champing the bit for ? " to 

 quote Mr. Jorrocks. Yes ; there he goes, 

 and looks fresh enough, too. But it is a 

 hunted fox for all that. We rein back a 

 yard or tw^o to get room to shove at the 

 wattled stile at the end of the ride, and as 



