1871— 72. J MR. TAILBY's FINAL SUCCESS. 65 



below, while others left the security of the outside for the 

 more laborious intricacies of the paths within. The latter 

 could never contend against the pace/ and reached the end 

 only to find Owston Village and half a niile of grass between 

 themselves and the flying pack. 



Short cuts are generally a delusion, but that delusion must 

 be risked now if places are to be recovered. Two rasping four- 

 rail stiles, with a stray puppy persistently slipping in just at the 

 critical moment of taking off ; then a clean light oxer, an easy- 

 swinging gate, and the village is past. Owston Bottom has 

 its terrors ; but someone has carried away the top rail at the 

 only spot where it is possible to make a double off the bank. 

 The lower rail is just high enough to bind the knees of Chris- 

 tian's horse, and flounder another on to his head ; while the 

 gee of a Harborough flyer is so accustomed to make a clean 

 sweep of everything in his path, that he positively declines the 

 double shuffle, and sits down in the brook to watch the turn of 

 afikirs. Two more fences, a little more squeezing galloping, 

 and a fortunate turn, put all on terms once more, though a 

 baulking stile by the side of a gate places a veto on the further 

 progress of one of the foremost rank, and even sends him 

 home to finish the season in bandages. Then comes a half- 

 minute check, recovered at once on the reappearance of the 

 master (withheld for a time in the sticky rides of Owston), and 

 the hunt again start fair, with fifty men in front who mean to 

 ride, and each of whom is as good as (or better than) his 

 neighbour. An oxer with an even front, but a 15-foot fly, 

 comes as welcome as charity to a starving family. A cloud of 

 them are over it all together, scarcely a rail cracking all along 

 the line, though they take it as thick beside and behind each 

 other as a flock of sheep over a trench. 



Leaving Knossington to the right, the line of flight is borne 

 gradually to the left, over the fine Avild tract towards Burrough 

 Hill, that has already been favoured more than once this year. 

 Their game is now close before them ; but, as is often the case 

 with a sinking fox, they cannot push him as rapidly as when 



