352 THE SPORT OF KINGS 



One thing which must strike the man who sees 

 an opening meet for the first time is the heartiness 

 of the greeting which men of all ranks and of all 

 opinions greet each other. They have probably 

 nothing in common but the love of hunting, but 

 that love of hunting is a firm bond of fellowship 

 — perhaps it would not be too much to say that 

 it is the firmest which exists. The scholar chats 

 gaily to the man who rarely opens a book ; the 

 Radical member for the nearest borough is listen- 

 ing eagerly to the old-fashioned and uncompro- 

 mising Tory of the old school, who is telling him 

 how hounds raced away from Millby Willow beds 

 last Thursday and rolled their fox over in the 

 open at the end of forty minutes — "A run worthy 

 of the middle of the season, by Jove, sir" ; the 

 owner of a choice little stud of racehorses, who 

 has a horse that has a good chance for the Derby, 

 and whose coverts we are going to try, is thinking 

 more anxiously now about the stoutness of his 

 foxes than the staying power of the colt in 

 question, and is discussing the draw with the 

 Master and the huntsman ; even the keeper, if 

 he be a good fellow, and a lot of them are good 

 fellows, is relating to a knot of his cronies what a 

 grand show of foxes he has, and how gallantly the 

 young ones all went away the last time hounds 

 were out cubbing. Were it not for this common 

 bond we should many of us never know of the 

 good points of our fellows, and we should miss 

 many a cherished friendship. 



But there is no time to moralise ; the Master 

 has given the signal. Memories and reflections 

 must give place to the business of the hour, 

 for hounds are already in cover. There is a 



