132 SKETCHES IN THE HUNTING FIELD. 



been here recently, it is clear by their footprints, and 

 down I trot to the banks of a pond — a veritable lake — 

 which separates me from the covert. On both sides of 

 me are impenetrable fences ; before me is the water, and 

 there is nothing for it but to turn and retrace my way. 



When at last I reached Shipton Wood — to make a 

 long story short — there is no trace of man, horse, or 

 hound, and it is more than half-past four, I was 

 thrown out at about half-past twelve — rather earlier 

 than later — and ever since have been in search of the 

 hunt. Clearly the best thing to do now is to go home, 

 and I ask the first man I meet how far it is to my 

 destination. 



" About eight miles, sir," he says ; and I trot on for 

 some twenty minutes, and ask once more if this is the 

 way. It is. " And how far ? " " Rather better than 

 eight miles, sir," is the answer. On again for a long 

 trot, and another inquiry. 



"About five miles, sir," I am now told, and after 

 riding some distance farther and asking again, am told 

 that it is " nigh upon six." Elastic as the road may be, 

 it is straight, so on we pound for nearly an hour, when 

 I once more inquire. 



" You should have turned down to the left more than 

 a mile back, sir," I am informed by the girl whose 

 assistance I have now sought ; and when at length I 

 get into the park, and have lost my way again, the 

 house appears in sight, and I gallop down a grassy 

 avenue to the stables. 



