Market Harborough, and Inside the BarWhyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
General
Market Harborough, and Inside the Bar
Whyte-Melville, G. J. (George John)
Country life -- England -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; Fox hunting -- Fiction
They had really had a good run—a fine, wild, old-fashioned fox-hunting
sort of run—from two hundred acres of woodland, down a couple of miles
of bottomless ravine, and away over deep stiff ploughs and frequent
straggling fences, till they reached the far-stretching Downs. Here
their fox had made his point good up-wind, and the pace even of those
square-headed, deep-ribbed, heavy-timbered hounds had been liberal
enough to satisfy the most exacting. Mr. Sawyer remembered, with a glow
of pride, how, when they descended into the low country once more, he
had led the field, and jumped an awkward stile, into a lane, to the
admiration of all beholders. He could _ride_, to give him his due; and,
moreover, he knew what hounds were doing, and was familiar with the
country. Therefore he had slipped away with them, when the pack, after
three or four turns round the huge woodland, had forced their fox into
the open; therefore he had kept on the down-wind side of the ravine
aforesaid, and therefore he had been fortunate enough to see the fox
handsomely run into, in an old double hedgerow, after an hour and forty
minutes, during which he had unquestionably “gone best” from end to end.
The huntsman said so—a wary ancient, who, never showing in front at any
period, or running the slightest risks in the way of pace or fencing,
had a huntsman’s peculiar knack of turning up when he was wanted,
particularly towards the finish. The doctor said so—an old rival, whose
high character for riding entitled him to be generous; and the
fishmonger, previous possessor of the grey, loudly affirmed, with many
oaths which it is unnecessary to repeat, that “Muster Sawyer always was
a hout-and-houter, and had gone audacious!” Contrary to custom, none of
the rest of the field had been near enough to give an opinion, though
excuses as usual were rife for non-appearance. To judge from his own
account, no man ever misses a run, save by a concatenation of
circumstances totally unprecedented. Besides every normal casualty, he
would always seem to have been baffled throughout by an opposing fiend
of remarkable perseverance and diabolical ingenuity.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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