THE QUORN SEASON 281 



front again with some very notable runs in early spring. 

 As one of these, perhaps their most enjoyable gallop of 

 the season (many of the Quornites give it this rank), 

 happens nowhere to have been sketched with regard to 

 persons or incidents, I may be excused for taking it here as 

 an instance in illustration of the bright sport of the winter 

 past. The Quorn had met that Monday (February 20) 

 at Willoughby, a point situated some dozen miles from 

 Leicester and altogether remote from any crowd-inducing 

 centre. Thus the Willoughby field was, for the Shires, 

 one of very moderate dimensions. Briefly, it was almost 

 ex'clusively a Quorn field, Melton, of course, being a strong 

 factor. Captain Warner led them at once to "The 

 Curate." How thick and warm and foxy the old gorse 

 looked ! " Yes, and always has done," added Tom Firr to 

 the half soliloquy, though his thoughts were not at the 

 moment going back so far as mine, namely, to the first 

 occasion I saw it drawn by Squire Musters, and heard him 

 cheer the bitches over the ride with his peculiar, sharp, 

 varinini tone (that to the hearer seemed, as Captain Smith 

 of merry mood put it, like nothing else than a little boy's 

 voice cheering from a big man's throat). " What's more," 

 added Tom, " we've had one rare good doing from here 

 this year, and we may have another now. The day's 

 right enough." Hardly had the words left those clean-cut 

 lips, hardly had the ladies threaded their way into the 

 dense covert, before there — not a hundred yards from his 

 horse's head — was a long grey fox gliding away at a swift, 

 stealthy gallop ! At that instant hounds opened on another 

 fox in covert. Half a minute, and then the " Yurry-yurry- 

 yurry ! " that has made our hearts beat and our backbone 

 creep so often and so happily. Again and again it echoed 

 forth, while the bitches tongued loudly in covert ; and 

 with any other man there could have been left nothing but 

 despair, a fatal delay, or a fresh beginning. But now 

 there was a pause ; and the hound music in the covert 

 slackened. " Yerv-yaat ! " screamed the veteran, and 

 round they all came, bounding gladly forth to the voice. 

 Not a whip could get near them in the thick gorse. So 

 the gallop began. By the time they reached Parson's 



