SOME HUNTING STORIES 207 



Mrs. Cassidy was old and stout, she was not at 

 peace with her god. She saw the hounds charge, and 

 her yells almost drowned the bloodthirsty chorus. 



Hounds were bad enough — but they flitted by 

 and were gone. It was the horse's turn. 



The man who kept the country has whispered a 

 little more. Now even to a brave and active 

 person a horse's head coming straight at you is a 

 terrifying sight. This was half the field, and their 

 coming was emphasised with thudding hoofs, 

 galloping hard. 



Out came Mrs. Cassidy's beads, down she flopped 

 on her knees, with " Holy Mary protect me," 

 and prayers offered to the gods who protect foxes ; 

 also oblations of any poultry they might select. 

 Thud and whack on and off went the horses, the 

 riders merely telling her to sit still. 



Past her a dream of death, flitted the man who 

 had refused her the pound, and he called out : 



" I knew you were too big a sportswoman," 

 quite pleasantly though his boot almost brushed 

 her as she crouched and yelled. 



At last a scarred bank marked the track of the 

 hunt and a stout old woman tottered homewards 

 her face clay colour. 



We had a fine hunt that day, and were beaten 

 by the hen-fed fox ten miles on. The man who 

 had quarrelled with Mrs. Cassidy rode home past 

 her house and pulled up to offer her . . . five 

 shilhngs. 



