1877—78.] THE WHISSENDINE. 213 



But Re3'narcrs eyes must have been sharper than our Mend's, 

 for he has threaded the corner here. Over to the right, where 

 they have blocked the gap with sturdy faggots. Wide round the 

 angle, where the two hedges join, if you would give hounds the 

 room they want. Duck your head under the ash tree, thank yom* 

 stars that that toprail is not a new one, and now you may gallop 

 on with Ranksboro' still the point in front. Hounds are darting 

 in single file through the stile, which forms the only and a 

 slippery outlet through the next bullfinch ; and it must be in 

 single file that pursuers follow — the wide footboard marking 

 the take-off and ensuring each leap. Captain Jacobson is 

 galloping up the other side, and unlatches in a twmlding a 

 white gate into the first of the three roads, all of which lead 

 from the west and south into the village of Whissendine, and 

 all of which are crossed by the chase to-day. Over, again, into 

 the broad meadows beyond ; just skirting the double post-and- 

 rails that look like " a stopper," and welcoming the fair sporting 

 obstacles that horses are not yet too blown to surmount. Here 

 is the second road ; there is a countryman whose yell proclaims 

 he has seen our good fox, and yonder are others whose view 

 holloas tell that he has turned hun to the left. Neal and 

 Goddard come up, hounds are lifted with a view to saving time, 

 and the run goes on, with Whissendine village still on the left. 

 Eoad No. 3 brings up a great accession of numbers, while the 

 men hitherto in position (as above recorded) are left at some 

 disadvantage by the sudden turn. Twenty minutes, perhaps, 

 from the covert to this point — a siveet twenty minutes, truly. 

 Many horses are gasping already ; but there is much for them 

 yet to do, and not a moment given to gather breath. Hounds 

 are on again like greyhounds from the slips ; and over hill and 

 dale race on till another quarter-hour has brought them to 

 the verge of the Leicester and Peterborough Railway, just north 

 of Ashwell — their fox not a hundred yards ahead. But a 

 sinking fox can often make one last tremendous effort for his 

 life ; the pack have not seen him, and scent often dwindles at 

 such a time. The -holloas that salute him as he rounds a farm- 



