400 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



of the old stubborn principle — enter with hounds and get 

 out how you can. Well, in the best of company, I coiildnl 

 get out of Cottesbrooke Park and its ironclad demesne 

 till after hounds had checked, some minutes later, beyond 

 the railway towards Lamport. But I wish my worst 

 enemy those few minutes within. 



The pack, I am told, seemed racing into their fox, when 

 a big bunch of Hereford cattle slouched over their path. 

 And a stick-heap below Brixworth village saved him, as 

 he curled up-wind after a four-mile point. A little dis- 

 tance, you will say. But he started under difficulties — 

 and the point gave the cream of the gallop, the thirty 

 minutes, with hounds most of the time well ahead. 



Winter opened fire upon us on Saturday, and can- 

 nonaded us fiercely during the day, while the Pytchley 

 were hunting from Harrington. A bitter snowstorm 

 enveloped all who approached the meet with anything like 

 punctuality. Then came an interval of perhaps an hour 

 and a half of fairly open weather with occasional blue 

 sky ; and during this time Goodall and the bustling lady 

 pack brought off a hunting run that possessed no little 

 interest, and occupied some sixty-five minutes. Where 

 were we, and where did we go ? I warrant not five 

 members of the Pytchley field knew, or even know now. 

 Fortunately, there were two or three bold foresters 

 abroad, to point out the various woodlands that we 

 approached and touched, and to explain to the stranger 

 throng that all the ins-and-betweens of the Pytchley 

 Woodlands are not such as we saw this day, and to 

 which, to their shame be it said, the visitors hesitated not 

 to apply most odiously comparative epithets. To me it 

 chanced to be very familiar ground. I can venture to 

 say only in its defence that while to all appearance it is 

 the meanest district of the country now hunted over by 

 Mr. Austin Mackenzie and his charming pack, yet often 1 

 have seen hounds run hard indeed over it, and strong, 

 straight foxes lead thence to very distant points. 



Rothwell is a swarthy boot-and-iron village, or grow- 

 ing town, situated on the border-line between Pytchley 

 proper and Pytchley woodland. Rothwell has a little 



