318 THE CREAM OF LEICESTERSHIEE. [Season 



Belvoir mean blood to-da}'. Teigli Tillage is on the hill, they 

 rise to it and leave it on the right. Twenty men jump into 

 its lane abreast ; a black hedge has to be pierced beyond. 

 " Thank you, sir, you'll give us a lead." Yes, but " the 

 Dodger" icon't ; and it remains for the martingale grey to 

 break the binders. Now we are sweeping down hill — fences 

 laid easy, horses stretched freely, the pack a clear field in front. 

 Water forrard again ! Oh, my hj^drophobic soul ! The Ash- 

 well Brook — and the ver}^ spot last animated by a swimming grey 

 mare ! * Get to the front, water-jumpers — and delude us over 

 in your stride ! Ah, hajDpiness ! Hounds swerve on the very 

 brink, and clatter on to the right, as if glad as we are to be 

 clear of the shining, yet miry, stream. Coursing along its 

 banks, they li}' forward till a field-bridge spans the difiicult}' ; 

 and then the}'^ rush their fox over the railway — midwa}' between 

 the stations of Ashwell and Whissendine, where on the map 

 you will find the word Loch/e written. I can convey no fair 

 idea of the scent that prevailed to-da}'. Hounds could follow 

 and turn unyichcra, at best pace and never hesitating. They 

 doubled a hedgerow with their fox, pushed hard as ever over 

 a fallow to the railway ; and were beyond it long befn^e they 

 could be reached by the crossing. Mr. Brocklehurst cheered 

 them on to the railway, tlien had two hundred yards to work 

 round after them. I3y the time he had bored the road bullfinch, 

 they were fovir hundred yards ahead. Boggy, deep, and awful 

 were the next four fields. Horses, fairly fresh yet, had their 

 lungs choked at once. The first fence was crashed through in 

 two points — the Dodger (the nom de plume is the horse's) break- 

 ing his way through on the right, Mr. Gerald Paget following, 

 — the welter regaining ground after a lengthy struggle and 

 gaining more still by at once striking his line to the right for 

 firmer soil. Another faint, scramble, with a sinking feeling 

 between the knees — the pack in the sky-line, and one's hopes 

 of further progress rapidly reaching the same eminence. Then 



* A recent luckless experieuce of the Author's. 



