2^6 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



the week's sport as a whole. I have seen nothing Hke it since 

 Mr. Coupland's final season with the Quorn). I might with 

 every reason dread the impeachment that experience ought 

 bv this time to have taught me how far more solid and 

 edifying is a good hunting run with a point — " not too fast, 

 you know" — had I not been fortified, first, by having 

 heard the delightful encomium of our Master upon the 

 gallop in question, and second, by the happy ejaculation of 

 our huntsman, " That's the pace foxhounds should run" — 

 both these authorities having seen more runs and more 

 gallops than have fallen to the lot of your humble servant. 



Only twenty-five minutes from Braunston Gorse to 

 ground on Shuckburgh Hill. Now^ you may, perhaps, 

 throw your paper on one side, or turn the page for some- 

 thing better. Yet it was good enough, I tell you, to get to 

 the bottom of every horse (but one) in a great, good field, 

 well fitted to do justice to Shuckburgh Vale. Why, if 

 corroboration of power of pace backed by deep ground were 

 needed, have not seventeen minutes with the Belvoir from 

 Coston Covert to Wood well Head more than once in 

 our time completely blown the best horses in Melton ? 

 Add to the pace and the ground — the latter hilly at first, 

 then deep, level turf accentuated by chopping ridge-and- 

 furrow — a close June-like day and a blazing sun, and you 

 will follow me as I trace the development, to wit, every 

 horse faltering, many of them barely walking, at the foot 

 of Shuckburgh Hill. 



Braunston Gorse was the mast to which the Pytchley 

 had nailed their colours for the day. Trifles of covert 

 had been drawn, but hope centred in Braunston Gorse, 

 and hope to-day told no " flattering tale." In fact it even 

 discounted its promise by pointing to a nor'-westerly wind 

 and bidding us turn our eyes away from the fair hillbound 

 prospect, on which I have descanted so often, so involun- 

 tarily, and so gladly. Three times this season have we 

 gone westward from Braunston Gorse — each time possibly 

 with the same fox, each time with the same destination in 

 view, but always starting differently. To-day we began 

 towards Daventry — the '< wrong side," they all exclaimed, 

 as they hustled, iron knee in velvet overall, through bridle- 



