XIII. 



THROWN OUT. 



It is cold as we drive to the meet, bitterly and — for the 

 24th of March — cruelly cold. The wind whistles round 

 the turned-up collar of my great-coat, and has a most 

 offensive habit of finding its way through interstices. 

 The Huntsman of the famous pack we are going to meet 

 is driving, and even he finds it cold, though arrayed in 

 a huge fur coat, which makes him look like something 

 between a sheep and a bear ; and he shelters me some- 

 what from the nipping and eager air that cuts like a 

 knife, or I should be able to discuss frost-bites with 

 Major Burnaby from personal experience. 



This is not the weather for sitting still outside a 

 covert, but that is an amusement in which we shall 

 scarcely be called upon to take part ; for there are foxes 

 about, and if any pack of hounds can find them it is that 

 which is going to try to-day. 



" Looks like December, doesn't it ? " I growl to my 

 companion on the hind seat. 



" Feels like it, by Jove ! " he answers, from the recesses 

 of a high collar which almost meets the brim of his 

 hat. But if tiiis be not the weather for driving it does 



