78 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



road, that crosses our front eastward. Sheep are penned 

 here and there in the two turnip-fields beyond it. Our 

 fox has dashed through them without halting or turning, 

 and gains useful ground in consequence — though it seems 

 hardly ten seconds later that we are clear of the hurdles, 

 the sheep-netting, the next three plough-country fences of 

 wattle and bramble, and are dashing down the grassy slope 

 towards Guilsboro'. Some sudden inspiration, or it may 

 be interference, has occurred to our fox on reaching the 

 lower ground ; for he strikes upward and leftward with 

 a quick unexpected swing that threatens to carry the little 

 ladies clean away from us, as they dart across the fair 

 pastures, northward. P'irm and invigorating is the turf 

 upon this red upland. With pace as now, 'tis ever a 

 delight to ride it. What the fences may be is a matter 

 of chance as they come. You and I will cling close to 

 the grey, and follow the official — as we have many a time 

 before. If he frighten us too sorely we can but pull up 

 — break a stirrup, lose a shoe, lame a horse, or what not. 

 There are wide and awkward bottoms among these ridges 

 — such places as you like to know the other side of before 

 you find yourself irretrievably under weigh. Will it do ? 

 Will it do ? The answer comes only from the thud of the 

 grey's bounding hoofs, as he lands yards beyond what was 

 after all but insignificance. But the next is a teaser if I re- 

 member aright ; and, as I have remarked before, I never in 

 my cowardice fail to remember a fence once seen, though I 

 may not even recognise the locality until I have deciphered 

 it afterwards from amid the cobwebs of my brain. Strike 

 it right or strike it left, you may have to crawl, clamber, 

 or even to gallop round. Follow the grey under the ash- 

 trees, keep on all the pace you have, but steady her head, 

 and steady her quarters ; and a hundred to one you clear 

 ditch, blackthorn, and rail, beside Mr. Hugh Owen, Mr. 

 Foster, and the rest of the centre division. Passing by 

 what I take to be Nortoft Lodge (if not, it was some other 

 small farmhouse, between Thornby and Guilsboro'), the 

 little ladies drive hard as ever up the greensward to the 

 Cold Ashby road. (How little memories crop up as one 

 gallops ! 'Twas the very same greensward, do you remem- 



