rate's day with the old horse 223 



replied to what Captain Pennell Elmhirst calls " the 

 huntsman's tuneful pleading." 



Faces began to lengthen. A blank at Tod Hall 

 had never been heard of in the memory of man. 

 The gentlemen in velveteen who had taken a some- 

 what prominent part in the morning's proceedings 

 had disappeared by noon, and men spoke disparag- 

 ingly of the race which some sportsmen aver is a 

 compound of policeman and poacher. 



It was easy by two o'clock to tell the men who 

 rode horses from those who only " talked horse." 



The " customers " were all looking grim and 

 silent ; the men of the road were brightly conver- 

 sational, and sat in groups discussing their cigars 

 and whisky flasks at every point from which they 

 could not possibly see, should the hounds slip 

 quietly and suddenly away. 



The little group near the corner of the covert had 

 grown weary of waiting. The glow which follows 

 a sharp trot to covert on your favourite hack, and 

 the consumption of " just one glass " of orange 

 brandy, had worn off, and the damp chill of a 

 November afternoon had begun to pierce through 

 the stoutest of pinks and to chill the gayest of hearts. 



The horses had fretted themselves into a white 

 lather with impatience, or stood with drooping heads 

 and staring coats, mute witnesses to the chill which 



