24 THE BEST SEASON OX RECORD. 



another lialf mile of grass, tliey liiuldle at a LricUcgate 

 by licarsby. The fox has swung to the left, again 

 across the turnpike ; but with such a scent as there is 

 to day, the pack falters neither on road nor plough, but 

 drives forward over the little fields behind the village, 

 whether they happen to be eddish or arable. Scarcely 

 so with their followers. The drive is well-nigh spent, 

 the steel is out of the iron, and the oil is all but burned 

 out. A horse will gallop in a mechanical sort of way 

 long after the power to jump has left him. A very 

 limited experience with the symptoms suffices to teach 

 us where such a stage has been reached ; also that a 

 mere mechanical stride is of little use against a strong 

 top binder. It by no means follows tliat the fjxculty 

 of appreciatioii adds greatly to our enjoyment at such 

 moments. I confess to its having a very contrary effect 

 upon my frail nerves — and I venture to assert, by the 

 way, that tlie one great drawback to the pleasures of 

 steeplechase jockeyship lies in the frequent necessity of 

 riding a beaten horse home. Now, however, there are 

 gates and gaps to hel}) us. Again we are on the grass, 

 and at the pace hounds are running tliey must surely 

 catch a view in another minute or two. A shepherd — with 

 more than the acumen or consideration of his race, 

 holding his colley in his arms — declares "the fox is 

 nobbut a hoondred ya-ards afore 'em!" the while he 

 fumbles at an unwilling gate, and we pant and ejaculate, 

 and hope there is no more jumping to be done. 

 " Forrard, little bitches," rings cheerily out as the pack 

 glides u]) the hedgeside, and we follow hurriedly to the 



