130 SKETCHES IN THE HUNTING FIELD. 



At any rate he did not say " Noa, sur," and that was 

 something, so with hope faintly reillumined I trot on 

 down the road. A waggoner is coming towards me. 



" Seen the hounds ? " I ask. 



" Noa, sur," he returns, and the faint hope is again 

 extinguished. In front, however, I see a farmer who 

 has just come out of a field into the road, and to him I 

 put the too familiar question. 



" I heard them just now, sir. They've gone on to 

 Shipton Wood," he says. 



"Thank you!" I return heartily. "Whereabouts is 

 that r " 



"That big wood 3'ou see over there, sir," he answers. 

 " If you go down the road for about half a mile, you will 

 find a lane leading to it." And with another " Thank 

 you very much," away I trot once more. There is the 

 lane, surely enough ; in fact there are two lanes, and 

 which did he mean r Both lead to gates into fields, and 

 either seems equally direct to the wood. 



This one to the right is perhaps the best, and though 

 the gate will not open, a convenient gap lets me through. 

 But the other side of the field there is a big, thick, black 

 bullfinch, and much as I desire to be the other side of 

 the fence, I do not propose to reach it by the rash ex- 

 pedient of jumping. No horse, unless he was a cannon- 

 ball— to paraphrase Sir Boyle's unconscious witticism — 

 could make certain of arriving, and altogether it seems 

 we have taken the wrong road. 



But stay ! Surely to the right there, a horn is sound- 



