70 STAGHUNTING WITH THE 



preparatory to a lay on upon the foil of some 

 warrantable stag that has been roused by the 

 tufters, and has fled for safety towards the Exe 

 Valley or the cramped enclosures of the Brush- 

 ford and Combe districts. Packed with eager 

 horsemen and horsewomen, the narrow village 

 roadways, which can hardly bv anv stretch of 

 imagination be dignified by the name of streets, 

 become almost impassable for a while, until the 

 magic password of "hounds, please," clears a 

 gangway, and the panting pack, hot and dusty 

 already, canters through, pressing closely on 

 horses and horsemen. Then the cavalcade 

 follows with all haste to the scene of the lay 

 on, whether it be on the heights of Baronsdown 

 or in the cool green meadows at Hele Bridge. 

 A little way up stream from the village there 

 lies a shady pool of the Haddeo, which seems 

 to have a fatal attraction for hard pressed deer, 

 and it is, by the way, a favourite otter's haunt 

 as well. Even in the longest summer's drought 

 it has depth enough for a score of yards or more 

 for a stag to swim and keep his enemies at bay, 

 but even in swimming his stroke becomes feebler 

 and feebler still, until some old hound bolder 

 than the rest dashes in and delays his progress, 

 only to find himself fiung off and soused in the 

 muddy waves, to climb sadly ashore and bav 

 defiance from a safer distance. Now the long 

 lasso line comes into plav and the whipper-in, 



