THROWN OUT. 131 



ing ? I can see nothing, but can hear it plainly enough ; 

 there it is again, so after it let us go. On we canter to 

 a farm on the rising ground, and from a yard behind it 

 comes the sound I have mistaken for a horn, apparently 

 an unconcerted piece of music rendered by the animals. 

 Certainly there is nothing in the shape of a hound, 

 much less of a huntsman, and I am about to turn once 

 again to the path to ShiptonWood — that, I now suspect, 

 was what my incoherent rustic friend was driving at — 

 when I actually do see a horseman descending the slope 

 before me. 



At last ! It is four o'clock I see by my watch, but 

 there is yet time for the long-deferred gallop, and the 

 mare has had so little real work, that there is no need 

 to seek my second horse ; besides, I long to feel her 

 striding away beneath me once again. The stranger 

 approaches — a groom he seems to be : second horseman, 

 probably. 



" Where are the hounds \ " I inquire, with a smile ot 

 anticipation. 



"Haven't come across them, sir," he answers. " I've 

 ridden from Newton, and didn't pass them on the 

 road ; " and with a touch of the hat he goes on his 

 way. 



The best thing to be done is to try Shipton Wood, 

 and back I go down the green lane, and along the 

 course indicated by the farmer. There is a line of 

 gates, and in this country gates are easily opened ; so 

 one side of the wood is soon reached. Horses have 



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