GUY FAWKES' DAY 27 



far as to inquire if he is " all right." Then the twenty 

 surge on, leaving the luckless man to scramble up as best 

 he can, and to take a twenty-fold worse place at the next 

 gap — the crucial point in each fence — than he would 

 otherwise have done. This not only leaves him shorn of 

 his pride of place, but, as we all know too well, may very 

 likely prevent him from taking active part in the run at 

 all, except as a follower after men as distinct from a rider 

 to hounds. Now this is not fair. Whether you elect or 

 not to take advantage of his dismounting, and to go 

 through the gate he has thus opened — at the cost, pos- 

 sibly, of wet feet, a strained back, and general dis- 

 hevelment — is of course entirely optional on your part. 

 You were equally at liberty, instead, to bore a hole through 

 the fence itself if you disliked the delay. But having 

 availed yourself of his self-sacrifice, the least you can do 

 is to allow the poor man to remount, and to go on, as 

 before, in front of you. He may be clumsy at getting 

 back into the pigskin. He is likely to be ten times 

 delayed if a mob of horses are dashing past him. And 

 I admit it is horribly aggravating for you and me to hear 

 the pack getting farther and farther away, while we are 

 merely detained till the stupid fellow has caught his 

 stirrup and regained his seat. Yet I maintain you have 

 no more right to leave him in the lurch, or even to 

 sniggle into one of those twenty places he loses, than you 

 have to cut him out of his turn at a fence. He has 

 severed the Gordian knot of a closed gateway (how much 

 that means you have only to ride in the Midlands of 

 England to see), and he ought to have the benefit of it. 

 A cruel thing it is to make, figuratively, a stepping-stone 

 of his carcase. But we all do — too frequently. Hounds 

 would seldom suffer anything by a few fair moments of 

 delay on our part. The victim is the ready man w^hose 

 service we accept and ignore. 



A pretty instance of hereditary taste was furnished in 

 mid-chase this week by a neat colt-foal, lately weaned 

 from its Mogador mother. The colt took two fences on 

 his own account to get to the horn, and, once there, stuck 

 to Lord Chesham over fence and ditch for a mile or 



