40 FOX-HUNTING IN THE SHIRES 



creasing wealth are gradually growing up into the 

 habits and ways of thought of that class. The mere 

 hard rider is the exception, nor as a rule does he last 

 long at hunting. When, after a short career of reckless 

 riding punctuated by falls, he gives up hunting, he 

 generally does so altogether, seeking distinction instead 

 at the mouth of the golf hole or the hoop of the croquet 

 lawn. 



Yet I may be permitted to warn the newcomer when 

 he first visits Tilton Wood, probably about the first 

 Tuesday in November, not to be led away by the size 

 of the wood into thinking he has plenty of time. It is 

 wise politely but steadily to work to the head of the 

 line and be as near the hounds as is right. They are 

 a pack of flying bitches noted for their necks and 

 shoulders, and they can race up and down hill faster 

 than the best of us can follow. The huntsman is quick 

 and his hounds trust him and fly to him. There will 

 be a single challenge from a hound, a note on the horn, 

 and the pack will be flying through the covert much 

 faster than you can travel along the sticky rides. Like 

 a flash they will be over into Skeffington Wood, and 

 when you reach the gate above the stream and turn 

 sharp to the right after the man in front — it is just as 

 likely to be a woman — gallop as you will, the hounds 

 will very likely be half-way to the Coplow before you 

 are over the fence or through the bridle gate. Mostly 

 stake and bound fences and the usual ditches, some 

 rails and the undulating ridge and furrow, with a con- 

 venient grass - bordered road as an alternative, lie 

 between you and the Coplow. But — and here you 

 will find the difference between grass countries and 

 others — hounds once on the grass, when there is any- 

 thing of a scent, scarcely hover at all, but pack together 

 quickly and race away. Or it may be that three or 



