BOOTLAXD AND WOODLAND 399 



his way. He stole on, then, by a hedgeside eastward ; 

 gained something, after all, by a baulk in the main road 

 in the first half-mile ; and then threw in our faces the 

 tirst difficulty of the run — the Spratton Brook, with its 

 rail-guarded bank and its one recognised ford, by late 

 tiood rendered difficult, black, and abominable — ask our 

 coming member. Hounds crossed some three hundred 

 yards to the right of the opening. Cunning men and 

 women were there already, and the clever wanted to be 

 there as soon as possible. " Your turn ! my turn ! — oh 

 dear, I hope I shan't go under like that ! " and so on. 

 Anyhow we emerged, in this plight or that, with, say, five, 

 ten, fifteen, or fifty people before us^hounds going hardly 

 as fast as they seemed, or how could we have caught them 

 in two miles. Lord Spencer's gates through the inimical 

 wire fencing notwithstanding ? Here they were, the pack, 

 at a hover in the same black bullock field in which they 

 hung, you remember, on last year's occasion. Then 

 ensued the brightest of the fun, hounds running harder 

 than they have run for weeks, all in a handful, too, and 

 the dog pack. I feel I have this winter been dealt little 

 to write, in the way of glow of the chase ; indeed I call to 

 mind only three little items, the first Shuckburgh scurry 

 on fat horses in early November, the dash from Leicester's 

 Piece with the North Warwickshire, and the stiff twenty 

 minutes from Ladbroke. The fire seemed kindled to-day 

 as we rode to Creaton, the Master giving us a line of his 

 own upon the sound turf, George Barrett treading on his 

 heels at the timber-topping business. So they entered 

 the road under Creaton Gorse, these and Captains Goul- 

 bourn and Lund, representing the two mounted branches 

 of our corps d'c'lite, with Lord Spencer, Mr. Foster, Mr. 

 Whitworth, Miss Byass, and Mrs. Osgood, the grey-clad 

 man on the grey-ticked horse, and of course our hard- 

 riding staff, all turning up the hill togetlier, as hounds 

 streamed past it with a bold fox in front. Down into the 

 great pastures of Cottesbrooke ; twenty minutes to here, 

 and the drive of the pack eliciting rapturous scream from 

 our jovial huntsman. Ah, why didn't I listen to his 

 friendly veto ? Not from conceit, I believe, but because 



