'NOT THE WOMAN'S PLACE' 237 



and a good number of that ringing company of half- 

 crowns with which she daily stuffs her hunting-purse 

 have left it for ever, before the iniquities of the 

 foxes are all recited and the Field arrives. The Field 

 (that " glad throng that goes laughing along ") 

 consists of the Hon. Sec, who is a woman impervious 

 to weather, faithful more than most, and a little 

 boy on a bare-backed pony, who wears winkers that 

 do not conceal the hatred for the hounds that gleams 

 in his eyes. 



" Take that pony out of that ! " commands the 

 Master. 



The little boy obeys with empressement, but as he 

 retires through the centre of the pack, the pony gets 

 in at least one kick before it is too late. 



" I believe Mrs. Dash is coming," says the Hon. 

 Sec. ; " I met her at the War- work, and she said if 

 her horse wasn't wanted to plough — she's begun her 

 extra tillage, you know — she was coming out. You 

 might give her a little law, she's always rather late, 



and Hennessy told me he'd be out " (Hennessy 



is a farmer, mildly sporting, and much courted in 

 consequence by the Hon. Sec, with whom such birds 

 are precious as they are rare.) 



A hail-shower, which might have been fired by a 

 machine-gun, comes swishing over the hills above the 

 covert, and decides the question of further " law " for 

 the always rather late Mrs. Dash, or even for the 

 courted Hennessy. The Deputy Master, with lips 

 stiff with cold, " touches " her horn (a recent and 

 imperfectly acquired accomplishment) and elicits a 

 note that is not specially cheering, being suggestive 

 of an abortive attempt upon a pocket-handkerchief; 

 it suffices, however, for the shivering hounds, and 

 the " glad throng " moves on into the wood. 



Too well, on such a day as this, does the Master 

 know the ways of X Wood. Along a cart-track. 



