More than once it has been my good fortune to secure a clipping run for a sporting field by keeping a clear look-out upon the matter at issue, _and nothing else_, when a long series of covers drawn blank, and such dampers, have sent one-half of the morning’s muster home, while the other had taken _to the dernier ressort_ of cigars and gossip. As an instance of this, several years ago, with the Shropshire, when Mr. Cresset Pelham had them, we had been at it from the hour of meeting till past three, in November too, and no luck. Having trotted on to our last hope for the day, it was tried, and pronounced--blank! Already twilight had commenced, the huntsman outside the cover was blowing his horn, the pack mustered, and home was the order of march. I had watched the gathering with care; and, as we were already trotting from the side of the spinny, it struck me that an old and favourite bitch was missing. I called the huntsman’s attention to it. There was a pause--a faint wimple was heard in the still valley--anon it opened into a cry, “Hark to it!”--the pack flew to the challenge--there was a mighty crash: in a minute a fox broke away in sight of every man who had had the patience to await the last throw on the dice. A burst of twenty minutes was the result, without a pull from best pace; and we turned him up in the open just as the parish lantern gave us notice to look out for squalls. There exists, in some masters of hounds, a disposition to keep back such men as, when hounds are in chase, follow them through the covers they take in their line. It is not my desire to inculcate disobedience to the powers that be; but certainly I cannot second that principle, either with reference to those who adopt it, or those to whom it is intended to apply. When a hunted fox has reached a cover, not only is it the best way to cheer hounds to him, that they should not feel themselves alone, but also the noise made by men following them is the most likely way to make a fresh fox break, without any of the stragglers getting on him. I have seen a fox crawl into cover dead beat, and already in the mouths of the pack. The huntsman and a whip followed them--the “whoo-whoop” was given--the master and the rest of the field waited on the outside. They remained in patience till ten minutes had elapsed. “Surely,” said an old hand at last, “they are doing more than baying him with all that cry. Hark! it has got to the opposite side of the wood:--by heavens! they’re away with a fresh fox.” And so they were; and they killed him at the end of forty minutes without a check, and without a sight of them ever being caught, save by the servants, who had followed to lift the fox that had crawled dead beat into the cover.