1 78 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



dashed in on his left in a high bulifinched corner. The 

 young centurion never hesitated a moment. To go for- 

 ward was to defy protest and to spoil sport. So im- 

 mediately ''Action left" was the word. He wheeled at a 

 gallop against the dense and lofty parapet of thorns, and 

 accepted his fate loyally and smilingly. If approbation 

 and acclamation on the part of his fellows carry any 

 weight, the bronze cross for valour will assuredly be his. 



I turn from my light fooling to dwell a moment on a 

 sadder subject — sad to us locally, as you will all recognise 

 in the sympathy that belongs to fox-hunting, and in the 

 similarity of instance that cannot, alas ! but belong be- 

 times to your own circle. 



By the roadside at Badby, as we clattered by — a 

 merry, chattering crew, doubtless — there might have been 

 seen an old man, the wreck of a grand frame, the wearer 

 of a fine old face. As " Riddy of Barby " one knew him 

 in one's boyhood, as almost a leader among our yeomen 

 friends. As Riddy of Barby he owned and took races 

 with Pathfinder, afterwards a Liverpool winner. As Riddy 

 of Badby he moved a few miles, still to be in the Pytchley 

 country, still to be appreciated and honoured by Pytchley 

 men. Only last season he would delightedly escort a 

 Pytchley man's child to show her all he could of the sport 

 and to lead her in safety, just as Mr. Russell upon Ex- 

 moor loved to pilot a girl to the stag-hunting. Now, as 

 he sorrowfully murmured — the while he gazed wistfully 

 on the passing concourse — "■ his hunting is over," and pain 

 is his portion while pleasure is ours. These few words 

 may meet his eye. If so, he will take it home to his 

 kindly heart that many and many a word of sympathy 

 and feeling anent him pass daily in the field in which he 

 was so long an esteemed and welcome figure. 



To the earlier part of a good sporting day, Monday, 

 November 14, I must go back to recall that the morning 

 fox took us from Stowe Wood some eight miles of selected 

 plough and covert-land as far as Tiffield, near Blisworth, 

 and that the two pictures of the day were Mr. Murland 

 leadmg several of us to momentary destruction by skimming 

 a big bottom at Foxley (was it not ?) and the tearful effort 



