KATES DAY WITH THE OLD HORSE 225 



the line under the lee of a grey stone wall, along 

 which the whole pack glanced, swift and close 

 packed as wild fowl on the wing, while the keen 

 November air thrilled with the maddest, merriest 

 music that ever made a sportsman's blood tingle in 

 his veins. 



The wild freshness of the morning, with its bright 

 sunshine, had given place to frost, and men settled 

 grimly down to their work with the conviction that 

 with such a burning scent and an afternoon fox few 

 would live with hounds to the finish. 



The field was never a large one from the start. 

 None but those who got away at once had a chance 

 of seeing the run, for the first mile was ridden at 

 racing pace over a lovely grass country, with 

 nothing to stop hounds or men save low stone walls, 

 over which they slipped without a rattle like the 

 phantoms of a dream. Amongst those still with 

 hounds at the end of the first mile were the two 

 ladies and the master. Polly's red jacket had fol- 

 lowed George Vernon as the needle follows the mag- 

 net — a little too closely, perhaps, for the comfort of 

 the magnet. Kate had been in trouble on the right, 

 her old horse, fresh and mad with excitement and 

 out of temper with the long restraint of the morning, 

 had got his ears laid flat back and the bit in his 

 teeth. 



