settled into the pace on the
other side, the senior on the four-year-old was alongside, crying, "Push
along, sir; push along, or they'll run clean away from you. The fences
are all fair on the line we're going." And so they were--hedges thick,
but jumpable enough, yet needing a hunter nevertheless, especially as
the big fields warmed up the pace amazingly; and, as the majority of the
farmers out were riding young ones destined for finished hunters in the
pasture counties, there was above an average of resolution in the style
of going at the fences. The ground almost all plough, naturally drained
by chalk sub-subsoil, fortunately rode light; but presently we passed
the edge of the Wolds, held on through some thin plantations over the
demesne grass of a squire's house, then on a bit of unreclaimed heath,
where a flock of sheep brought us to a few minutes' check. With the help
of a veteran of the hunt, who had been riding well up, a cast forward
set us agoing again, and brought us, still running hard, away from the
Wolds to low ground of new inclosures, all grass, fenced in by ditch and
new double undeniable rails. As we had a good view of the style of
country from a distance, we thought it wisest, as a stranger, on a
strange horse, with personally a special distaste to double fences, to
pull gently, and let half-a-dozen young fellows on half-made,
heavy-weight four or five years old, go first. The results of this
prudent and unplucky step were most satisfactory; while two or three,
with a skill we admired, without venturing to imitate, went the "in and
out" clever, the rest, some down and some blundering well over, smashed
at least one rail out of every two, and let the "stranger" through
comfortably at a fair flying jump. After three or four of these
tremendous fields, each about the size of Mr. Mechi's farm, a shepherd
riding after his flock on a pony opened a gate just as the hounds, after
throwing up their heads for a minute, turned to the right, and began to
run back to the Wolds at a slower rate than we started, for the fox was
no doubt blown by the pace; and so up what are called hills there (they
would scarcely be felt in Devonshire or Surrey), we followed at a hand
gallop right up to the plantations of Brocklesby Park, and for a good
hour the hounds worked him round and round the woods, while we kept as
near them as we could, racing along green rides as magnificent in their
broad spread verdures and overhanging ev