440 THE BEST OF THE FUN 



competition in the Rugby Chases of this Thursday. At 

 3.30 we were loosed off of a sudden from Elkington (Lord 

 Spencer's) Covert ; and ten minutes later some ten men, 

 out of a competitive field, had drawn rein after as merry a 

 ride as such few minutes could convey. The gully of 

 Elkington Bottom is a gruesome place into which to race 

 with a horse somewhat out of hand ; but twice, in and out 

 of its grassy walls, there dashed a hundred men or more as 

 the scurry began. " Don't go there ! it's an awful big 'un ! " 

 was no encouraging shout to fall upon ears already pricked 

 and set for the delusive rails, three strides in front. The 

 voice was that of the best of yeomen and friends, who 

 justified his warning later in the day by asserting that he 

 had since spent an hour rescuing some other essayist from 

 the deep grave beneath the timber. But my friend upon 

 whom the shout was directed declares it struck him like a 

 cold douche upon his backbone. 



To Winwick House is a grassy and genial ride, with 

 hounds thus flying, and if so be that, on this occasion at 

 any rate, you had the vovg to take Goodall's route, keeping 

 yourself clear of the bottoms that interfered so seriously 

 with many of the gallopers of the left division. Before 

 reaching Thornby, and just when a grand burst seemed 

 assured, the little band pulled up with hounds baying over 

 a badger earth. And among these (besides, it goes almost 

 without saying, the Master and his three men) were, I have 

 reason to believe, Messrs. Jameson, Graham, Adamthwaite, 

 F. Bellville, Craig, Foster, Underwood, and about two more, 

 I forget who, completing the party awaiting our arrival. 



The next event was the run of the day, though I do 

 not propose to inflict it at any great length upon you. 

 (Already I owe you, unfortunate readers, apologies many 

 for unavoidable verbosity on my part with regard to last 

 week, a flood of sport necessitating instant flow of words.) 

 At four o'clock we were stationed above the pretty gorge of 

 Winwick Warren. Five minutes later we were away to 

 the same dashing scent, our direction diverted almost 

 immediately afterwards by the following quaint cause. As 

 we careered in hot haste over the second fence we landed 

 almost into the waistcoat of a hard young sportsman, whose 



