238 STRAY -AW AYS 



deep in sticky black mire, she moves slowly, encourag- 

 ing tlie hounds, who are invisible in the thick under- 

 growth of the wood. She is not well versed in 

 " hound language," and trusts the Hon. Sec. is out 

 of hearing, but she does her best to keep things 

 lively, despite the silence morne et vaste of the hounds. 

 The central ride accomplished, the narrow tracks, 

 cut for woodcock-shooters through the close-growing, 

 stunted myriads of oaks, hollies, and ashes, have to 

 be dealt with. The sleet-showers have less power 

 to harm, but the going is worse, and the peril from 

 overhanging branches more acute. The earth-stopper 

 materialises mysteriously at intervals, with specious 

 encouragement. 



" Thry south, Ma'am ! Oh, surely he's in it ! 

 There's tin o' them in it ! There was a woman 

 picking sticks and didn't she say he faced herself 

 and the little dog she had, to bite them ! " 



The Master tries south, also north, east, and west. 

 The older and wiser hounds string out at her heels, 

 along the narrow ride. They have ascertained that 

 there are no foxes and no scent. They listen to the 

 squeals of Wilful, who is now hunting rabbits, witli 

 expressions that would befit Elders of the Scotch 

 Kirk were brawling to take place during service. 



The Deputy Master is reasonably certain that the 

 foxes have been " stopped in," still it is her duty to 

 try out the wood and she does it. The younger 

 hounds have followed Wilful to do evil, and are 

 indemnifying themselves for the absence of scent and 

 foxes by running rabbits at view. The Master rates 

 tliem in vain. Tliey know her best as an over- 

 indulgent purveyor of biscuit and minor delicacies; 

 the elderly whipper-in is far away, outside the covert, 

 on the lee-side of a fence, cursing the weather, the 

 earth-stopper, and the foxes, with tlie lurid misan- 

 thropy of a minor prophet. 



