88 THE BEST SEASON ON RECORD. 



term a " liimtiiig run." AVe surely ought to be there 

 then — if only to assert our right, as subscribers, land 

 occupiers, or poachers, to ride among the hounds and 

 round the huntsman. So we all of us make the most of 

 a hunting run ; see more of the work than we can 

 possibly expect to in three " gallops '' out of four, or in 

 ninety-nine out of a hundred (according to our calibre, 

 mental, bodily, and generally effective) ; have a great 

 deal more to say about it afterwards (not the worst part 

 of foxhunting) ; and probably go to bed without any of 

 the soreness that may be our share after the fastest "run 

 of the season." 



Monday's was an excellent example of such oppor- 

 tunity. HoAv much we may have seized it — why we did 

 or why we didn't — is best known to ourselves, and to the 

 man who, never very forward himself, invariably has an 

 inquiry of mock solicitude for you and me as we jog up 

 with apparent unconcern after the fox has been broken 

 up. On Monday hounds brought us a long way, for the 

 most part over a very eligible country ; the fox made an 

 honest point of eight miles and a half; and whatever else 

 might ha])pen on the wa}', it could scarcely have been 

 the pace that choked the straggler off. 



My brief and very unvarnished narrative has to start from 

 Willoughby Gorse — where we found, no doubt, tlie Ellar's 

 Gorse fox of repeated renown. The first seven or eight 

 minutes' rush led us through a cruel country — very nice 

 grass, it is true, but that grass parcelled out in little 

 plots and paddocks so stiffly fenced that no two comfort- 

 able gap') lay opposite each other ; and the boldest and 



