170 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



splendidly. I could watch the brown coat and the red 

 popping over the high, bank-like fences ; and I could 

 mark a line of half-a-dozen dusky customers and one lady 

 flitting closely in their tracks. With respect and with 

 edification I noted one ex-Master — and the senior of me 

 and of most of us — plunging his new Irish importation 

 into, and kicking him gaily out of, the brook that runs 

 from Gilmorton to Misterton, while at the same moment 

 I all but knocked my best friend (across whose mahogany 

 we are to have it out to-morrow night) into the yellow 

 stream flowing 'neath the stout laid hedge. 



By now we were in the noontide of a perfect Novem- 

 ber day — cool, cloudy, and quiet ; and the little ladies 

 were racing happily over ri charming outspread of grass, 

 (After all there is nothing like a burst in the flying Grass 

 Countries of Old England.) Across the road (Gilmorton 

 and Lutterworth) and over the dairy meadows to Biltes- 

 well — the same line, you remember, we ran las*, year, 

 when we killed at the Cross-in-Hand. And, the better 

 to recall it to your memory, there is John riding the same 

 old grey horse^-rather whiter now — that helped us all 

 along that day. 



And who else was there or about ? you ask. I will 

 give you half an answer, i.e. a few of them, names familiar 

 in the front rank of the Pytchley field, viz. : Mrs. Byass, 

 Captain Riddell, Mr. Adamthwaite, Mr. C. Marriott, Captain 

 Faber, and Mr. Gilbert. I can't be contradicted about 

 these : and my sins shall be sins of omission. Some 

 twLnly minutes of the best, then a check close to Bittes- 

 well village, then twenty minutes more of very pretty work 

 of horse and hound. (Scoff net, ye Nestors of the plough. 

 Ye can't see hounds do their work in the Grass Countries 

 without bringing the horse, and a fairly good one, forbye, 

 also into play. And, to do us reasonable justice, we 

 accept the necessity, as a rule, very cordially.) 



So we lost our fox near Gilmorton village, but picked 

 In in up, poor fellow, in the afternoon, stiff and sore, in 

 Misterton Gorse, and killed him in The Reeds. 



