282 THE CEEAM OF LEICESTERSHIRE. [Season 



present at this moment Captain Candy (in spite of two falls), 

 Captain Boyce, Messrs. Gerald Paget, distance, J. Belirens, 

 Creke, Younger, and several more. (I cannot dare a complete 

 list.) 



They think the run is over ; the}^ call it a brilliant burst. 

 Flasks are in'oduced, congratulation given, and cigars offered. 

 But, beyond that cii'cle of fog and steam, the chase is still pro- 

 ceeding. Neal can only count half his hounds, and has by no 

 means accounted for his fox : so he, at least, is restless — if 

 others are satisfied. A holloa over the hill tells him there is 

 something more to be done ; and he casts round towards 

 Pickwell to learn that the leading hounds have slipped on, and 

 that he, and we, are merely with the tail. Captain Brockle- 

 hurst has caught a glimpse of them as the}' disappeared forward ; 

 and now, instead, of pm'suing the fox, it is tracking the line of 

 hounds. Not a horse can gallop ; few can trot ; and it becomes 

 a laborious pilgrimage in the dark. To cut description short, 

 they {i.e., huntsman and field) struggled on, breaking through 

 gaps, trotting over grass, working forward as the tail hounds 

 showed a line, or foot-j)eople gave information, till they reached 

 Pickwell village — to find eight couple of hoimds wandering 

 helplessly round. ]\Ii-. Duncan, on his road home, had met 

 them, running breast high by themselves ; and the villagers 

 said they had been there five minutes. And this to ni}'^ mind 

 epitomises the excellence of this grand run. Hounds had gone 

 — without a check and at extraordinar}^ speed — for forty 

 minutes ! — and when can you remember the like ? 



Neal cast round the village ; and tii'ed horses fell at small 

 broken fences. Most of the field went home ; but a few 

 remained to do their duty by huntsman and master. Hounds 

 were brought back to the village, and every nook was searched. 

 There was a feather in the churchyard, a whimper in the 

 parson's garden. Yo^ oi over there, old bitch ! From an ivy- 

 covered wall drops the monster, his great brush hanging, and his 

 ponderous head drooping low. He darts through a farmyard 

 under horses' very heels. " Tally ho ! Tally ho ! Fifty pounds 



