38 How I Became a Sportsman. 



cry, which appeared to have a maddening influ- 

 ence on my steed. He seemed to understand 

 all about it, for away he went again like the 

 very devil. 



"D — n that Httle beggar, he's here again," 

 I heard another man in green exclaim ; that 

 was the huntsman, the celebrated Bill Long, 

 then in the zenith of his fame. I don't know 

 exactly what I did or how I got there, but 

 after tearing across country for some time I 

 was close at hand, when there was a confused 

 heap of growling, snarling hounds a-top of 

 something in the corner of a field, into which 

 heap the first whip in green that I had seen on 

 the grey went, and soon emerged with the dead 

 fox. This was Charlie Long (nephew of the 

 huntsman), then perhaps the best first whip 

 and most promising huntsman in England. 

 (Years afterwards I followed him over the hog- 

 backed stile which gave him the fall that 

 caused his death.) The dead fox was then 

 denuded of his mask and brush, and his body 

 given to the hounds. 



I was covered with mud from top to toe, 

 and so was the pony ; but I was rather glad of 

 that, for it hid his patches. My face was 



