them that has not the look of a two hundred-guinea hunter.

I was about to put the question to Keyworth, the hunt secretary, who had
just come within speaking distance, and was likely to know if anybody did,
when the master gave the signal for a move, and huntsman and hounds,
followed by the entire field, went off at a sharp trot.

We had a rather long ride to covert, but a quick find, a fox being viewed
away almost as soon as the hounds began to draw. It was a fast thing while
it lasted, but, unfortunately, it did not last long; for, after a twenty
minutes' gallop, the hounds threw up their heads, and cast as Cuffe might,
he was unable to recover the line.

The country we had gone over was difficult and dangerous, full of blind
fences and yawning ditches, deep enough and wide enough to swallow up any
horse and his rider who might fail to clear them. Fortunately, however, I
escaped disaster, and for the greater part of the run I was close to the
gentleman with the Mephistophelian face and Tom Rawlings, who acted as his
pilot. Tom rode well, of course--it was his business--but no better than
his master, whose horse, besides being a big jumper, was as clever as a
cat, flying the ditches like a bird, and clearing the blindest fences
without making a single mistake.

After the first run we drew two coverts blank, but eventually found a
second fox, which gave us a slow hunting run of about an hour, interrupted
by several checks, and saved his brush by taking refuge in an unstopped
earth.

By this time it was nearly three o'clock, and being a long way from home,
and thinking no more good would be done, I deemed it expedient to leave