Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man by Siegfried Sassoon, from Project Gutenberg Canada (2024)

by Siegfried Sassoon

Prefatory Note

I have been asked to write an explanatory preface to these Memoirs, onthe occasion of their first appearance in a single volume. The firstvolume was begun in October 1926 and completed eighteen months later.The second volume was begun in December 1928 and completed in April1930. The third volume, completed in January 1936, was written in fourmonths. These details are all I can offer the reader of this volume.From the first word to the last I have tried to make these Memoirsexplain themselves as they go along. No further explanations arepossible, or, in my opinion, necessary.

MEMOIRS OF A FOX-HUNTING MAN

Table of Contents

1. Early Days
2. The Flower Show Match
3. A Fresh Start
4. A Day with the Potford
5. At the Rectory
6. The Colonel's Cup
7. Denis Milden as Master
8. Migration to the Midlands
9. In the Army
10. At the Front

Part One
Early Days

[I]

My childhood was a queer and not altogether happy one. Circumstancesconspired to make me shy and solitary. My father and mother died beforeI was capable of remembering them. I was an only child, entrusted to thecare of an unmarried aunt who lived quietly in the country. My aunt wasno longer young when I began to live in her comfortable, old-fashionedhouse with its large, untidy garden. She had settled down to her localinterests, seldom had anyone to stay with her, and rarely left home. Shewas fond of her two Persian cats, busied herself sensibly with hergarden, and was charitably interested in the old and rheumaticinhabitants of the village. Beyond this, the radius of her activitiesextended no further than the eight or ten miles which she could cover ina four-wheeled dog-cart driven by Tom Dixon, the groom. The rest of theworld was what she described as 'beyond calling distance.'

Dixon was a smart young man who would have preferred a liveliersituation. It was he who persuaded my aunt to buy me my first pony. Iwas then nine years old.

My aunt had an unexplained prejudice against sending me to school. So Iremained at home until I was twelve--inefficiently tutored by a retiredelementary schoolmaster, a gentle, semi-clerical old person who arrivedevery morning, taught me a limited supply of Latin, and bowled lobs tome on the lawn. His name (which I have not thought of for I don't knowhow many years) was Mr. Star.

Apart from my aunt's efforts to bring me up nicely, my early educationwas exclusively controlled by Mr. Star and Dixon, who supplemented Mr.Star's lobs with his more intimidating overarm bowling, and never lostsight of his intention to make a sportsman of me. For the vaguelyapologetic old tutor in his black tail-coat I felt a tolerant affection.But it was Dixon who taught me to ride, and my admiration for him wasunqualified. And since he was what I afterwards learnt to call 'aperfect gentleman's servant,' he never allowed me to forget my positionas 'a little gentleman': he always knew exactly when to becomediscreetly respectful. In fact, he 'knew his place.'

I have said that my childhood was not altogether a happy one. This musthave been caused by the absence of companions of my own age. My AuntEvelyn--who was full of common sense and liked people (childrenincluded) to be practical in their habits and behaviour--used tocomplain to Mr. Star that I was too fond of mooning aimlessly about bymyself. On my eighth birthday she gave me a butterfly-net and a fretworksaw, but these suggestions were unfruitful. Now and again she took me toa children's party given by one of the local gentry: at such functions Iwas awkward and uncomfortable, and something usually happened whichincreased my sense of inferiority to the other children, who were betterat everything than I was and made no attempt to assist me out of myshyness. I had no friends of my own age. I was strictly forbidden to'associate' with the village boys. And even the sons of the neighbouringfarmers were considered 'unsuitable'--though I was too shy and nervousto speak to them.

I do not blame my aunt for this. She was merely conforming to her socialcode which divided the world into people whom one could 'call on' andpeople who were 'socially impossible.' She was mistaken, perhaps, inapplying this code to a small, solitary boy like myself. But the worldwas less democratic in those days, and it must not be thought that Ireceived any active unkindness from Aunt Evelyn, who was tender-heartedand easygoing.

As a consequence of my loneliness I created in my childish day-dreams anideal companion who became much more of a reality than such unfriendlyboys as I encountered at Christmas parties. (I remember a party given bymy aunt, in the course of which one of my 'little friends' contrived tolock me in a cupboard during a game of hide-and-seek. And, to tell thetruth, I was so glad to escape from the horrors of my own hospitalitythat I kept as quiet as a mouse for the best part of an hour, crouchingon the floor of that camphor-smelling cupboard.) The 'ideal companion'probably originated in my desire for an elder brother. When I beganthese reminiscences I did not anticipate that I should be describingsuch an apparently trivial episode--and I doubt whether such a thing canbe called an episode at all--but among a multitude of blurred memories,my 'dream friend' has cropped up with an odd effect of importance whichmakes me feel that he must be worth a passing mention. The fact is that,as soon as I began to picture in my mind the house and garden where Ispent so much of my early life, I caught sight of my small,long-vanished self with this other non-existent boy standing beside him.And, though it sounds silly enough, I felt queerly touched by therecollection of that forgotten companionship. For some reason which Icannot explain, the presence of that 'other boy' made my childhoodunexpectedly clear, and brought me close to a number of things which, Ishould have thought, would have faded for ever. For instance, I haveonly just remembered the tarnished mirror which used to hang in thesunless passage which led to my schoolroom, and how, when I secretlystared at my small, white face in this mirror, I could hear the sparrowschirping in the ivy which grew thickly outside the windows. Somehow thesight of my own reflection increased my loneliness, till the voice of myaunt speaking to one of the servants on the stairs made me startguiltily away....

And now, as I look up from my writing, these memories also seem likereflections in a glass, reflections which are becoming more and moreeasy to distinguish. Sitting here, alone with my slowly moving thoughts,I rediscover many little details, known only to myself, detailsotherwise dead and forgotten with all who shared that time; and I aminclined to loiter among them as long as possible.

[II]

Now that I come to think about it, it seems to me to be quite on thecards, that, had my Aunt Evelyn employed an unpretentious groom-gardener(who would really have suited her original requirements far better thanjaunty young Dixon) I should never have earned the right to call myselfa fox-hunting man. Dixon's predecessor was a stolid old coachman whodisliked riding. One of my earliest recollections is the advent ofDixon, who lost no time in persuading my aunt to pension off her pair ofworn-out carriage horses, which he replaced by two comparativelyjuvenile animals 'warranted quiet to ride or drive.' Dixon dearly lovedto do a deal, and my aunt was amenable to his influence. She even wentso far as to sanction the purchase of a side-saddle, and although atimid and incompetent horsewoman, she came to the conclusion that ridingwas good for her health. Two or three times a week, then, on fine days,shepherded by the dignified and respectful groom, she was to be seenambling along the lanes in a badly cut brown habit. She never attended ameet of the hounds however, for we lived in an unhunted part of thecountry, and the nearest meet was more than eight miles away.

So far as I was concerned, for several years 'the hounds' remained aremote and mysteriously important rumour, continually talked about byDixon, who never ceased to regret the remoteness of their activities.Foxes were few in our part of the country, and the farmers made nosecret of shooting them. In fact ours was a thoroughly unsportingneighbourhood. There wasn't so much as a pack of beagles in thedistrict. But Dixon was deeply imbued with sporting instincts. From theage of fourteen he had worked in stables, and had even shared, for a fewmonths, the early rising rigours of a racing-stable. He had been 'oddman' to a sporting farmer in the Vale of Aylesbury, and had spent threeyears as under-groom to a hard-riding squire who subscribed handsomelyto Lord Dumborough's Hounds. Dumborough Park was twelve miles from wheremy aunt lived, and in those days twelve miles meant a lot, from a socialpoint of view. My aunt was fully two miles beyond the radius of LadyDumborough's 'round of calls.' Those two miles made all the difference,and the aristocratic yellow-wheeled barouche never entered ourunassuming white gate. I never heard my aunt express any regret for hertopographical exclusion from the centre of county society. But for Dixonit was one of the lesser tragedies of life; he would have given anythingto be able to drive 'the mistress' over to Dumborough Park now andagain, for the Kennels were there, and to him the Kennels were thecentre of the local universe. As it was, he had to be content with a fewgarden-parties, where he could hob-nob with a crowd of garrulous grooms,and perhaps get a few words with that great man, Lord Dumborough's headcoachman.

Nevertheless, as the slow seasons of my childhood succeeded one another,he rattled my aunt along the roads in her four-wheeled dog-cart at anincreasingly lively pace. He must have been very adroit in hismanagement of my gentle relative and guardian, since he perpetuallyfound some plausible excuse for getting rid of one of the horses.Invariably, and by gentle gradations toward his ideal 'stamp of hunter,'he replaced each criticizable quadruped with one that looked more likegalloping and jumping. The scope of these manoeuvrings was, of course,restricted by my aunt's refusal to pay more than a certain price for ahorse, but Dixon always had his eyes open for a possible purchase fromany sporting farmer or country gentleman within riding distance; he alsoassiduously studied the advertisements of the London horse-sales, andwhen he had finally established his supremacy 'the mistress'unprotestingly gave him permission to 'go up to Tattersalls,' whence hewould return, sedately triumphant, accompanied by the kindly countenanceof what he called 'a perfect picture of an old-fashioned sort.' (A'sort,' as I afterwards learned, was a significant word in thevocabulary of hunting-men.)

How vividly I remember Dixon's keen-featured face, as he proudly paradedhis latest purchase on the gravel in front of the house, or cantered itround the big paddock at the back of the stables, while my aunt and Iwatched, from a safe distance, the not infrequent symptoms of asprightliness not altogether to her taste.

"Yes, 'm," he would say, in his respectful voice, as he pulled up andleant forward to clap the neck of the loudly snorting animal, "I thinkthis mare'll suit you down to the ground."

'Fling you to the ground' would, in one or two cases, have been a moreaccurate prophecy, as Aunt Evelyn may have secretly surmised while shenervously patted the 'new carriage horse' which was waltzing around itsowner and her small nephew! And there was, indeed, one regrettableoccasion, when a good-looking but suspiciously cheap newcomer (bought atTattersalls without a warrant) decided to do his best to demolish thedog-cart; from this expedition my aunt returned somewhat shaken, andwithout having left any of the cards which she had set out to distributeon "old Mrs. Caploss, and those new people over at Amblehurst Priory."So far as I remember, though, the unblenching Dixon soon managed toreassure her, and the 'funny tempered horse' was astutely exchanged forsomething with better manners.

"He looked a regular timber-topper, all the same," remarked Dixon,shaking his head with affectionate regret for the departed transgressor.He had a warm heart for any horse in the world, and, like every goodgroom, would sit up all night with a hunter rather than risk leaving athorn in one of its legs after a day's hunting.

So far as I know, Dixon never made any attempt to get a better place.Probably he was shrewd enough to realize that he was very well off wherehe was. And I am certain that my aunt would have been much upset if hehad given notice. The great thing about Dixon was that he knew exactlywhere to draw the line. Beyond the line, I have no doubt, lay his secretlonging to have an occasional day with the Dumborough Hounds on one ofhis employer's horses. Obviously there was no hope that 'the mistress'could ever be manipulated into a middle-aged enthusiasm for the hazardsof the chase. Failing that, his only possible passport into the distantDumborough Elysium existed in the mistress's nephew. He would make asportsman of him, at any rate!

* * * * * * *

My first appearance in the hunting-field was preceded by more than threeyears of unobtrusive preparation. Strictly speaking, I suppose that mysporting career started even earlier than that. Beginning then with themoment when Dixon inwardly decided to increase my aunt's establishmentby the acquisition of a confidential child's pony, I pass to his firstrecorded utterance on this, to me, important subject.

I must have been less than nine years old at the time, but I distinctlyremember how, one bright spring morning when I was watching him assistmy aunt into the saddle at her front door, he bent down to adjust astrap, and having done this to his final satisfaction made the followingremark: "We'll soon have to be looking out for a pony for Master George,'m."

His tone of voice was cheerful but conclusive. My aunt, who had, asusual, got her reins in a tangle, probably showed symptoms of demurring.She was at all times liable to be fussy about everything I did or wantedto do. As a child I was nervous and unenterprising, but in this case heropposition may have prejudiced me in favour of the pony. Had sheinsisted on my learning to ride I should most likely have felt scaredand resentful.

As it was, I was full of tremulous elation when, one afternoon a fewweeks later, Dixon appeared proudly parading a very small black ponywith a flowing mane and tail. My aunt, realizing that it was about tobecome her property, admired the pony very much and wondered whether itwent well in harness. But since it was already wearing a saddle, I soonfound myself on its back, my aunt's agitated objections were rapidlyoverruled, and my equestrianism became an established fact. Grasping thepommel of the saddle with both hands, I was carried down the drive asfar as the gate; the pony's movements were cautious and demure: on thereturn journey Dixon asked me whether I didn't think him a littlebeauty, but I was speechless with excitement and could only nod myassent. Even my aunt began to feel quite proud of me when I relinquishedmy apprehensive hold on the saddle and, for the first time in my life,gathered up the reins. Dixon greeted this gesture with a glance ofapproval, at the same time placing a supporting hand on my shoulder.

"Stick your knees in, sir," he said, adding, "I can see you'll make arider all right."

He had never called me 'sir' before, and my heart warmed toward him as Istraightened my back and inwardly resolved to do him credit.

[III]

Although, in my mind's eye, that first pony is clearly visible to me, Iam not going to delay my already slow progress toward fox-hunting bydescribing him in detail. It will be sufficient if I quote Dixon, whocalled him 'a perfect picture of a miniature hunter.' His name was RobRoy, and I thought him the most wonderful pony in the world. Nimble andlightly built, his courageous character never caused him to behave withmore than an attractive friskiness. My devotion to him was thereforewell justified. But as I sit here reconstructing my life from thoseremote beginnings, which are so difficult to recover in their authenticaliveness, I cannot help suspecting that I was, by nature, only half asportsman. Dixon did his best for me as he patiently coaxed me toward myfirst fence (the idea of 'jumping' made me horribly nervous for fullytwelve months after I became a proud owner of horseflesh), but theremust have been moments when he had grave doubts about my future as ahorseman.

When I began my rides on Rob Roy, Dixon used to walk beside me. Ourlongest expedition led to a place about three miles from home. Down inthe Weald were some large hop-farms, and the hop-kilns were interestingobjects. It was unusual to find more than two hop-kilns on a farm; butthere was one which had twenty, and its company of white cowls wasclearly visible from our house on the hill. As a special treat Dixonused to take me down there. Sitting on Rob Roy at the side of the road Iwould count them over and over again, and Dixon would agree that it wasa wonderful sight. I felt that almost anything might happen in a worldwhich could show me twenty hop-kilns neatly arranged in one field.

It is no use pretending that I was anything else than a dreaming andunpractical boy. Perhaps my environment made me sensitive, but there wasan 'unmanly' element in my nature which betrayed me into many blundersand secret humiliations. Somehow I could never acquire the knack ofdoing and saying the right thing: and my troubles were multiplied by aneasily excited and emotional temperament. Was it this flaw in mycharacter which led me to console my sense of unhappiness and failure byturning to that ideal companion whose existence I have alreadydisclosed? The fantasies of childhood cannot be analysed or explained inthe rational afterthoughts of experienced maturity. I am not attemptingto explain that invisible but unforgotten playmate of mine. I can onlysay that he was a consolation which grew to spontaneous existence in mythoughts, and remained with me unfalteringly until gradually merged inthe human presences which superseded him. When I say that he wassuperseded I mean that he faded out of my inward life when I went toschool and came in crude contact with other boys. Among them he wasobliterated but not replaced. In my memory I see him now as the onlyfriend to whom I could confess my failures without a sense of shame. Andwhat absurd little failures they were!

At this moment I can only recall a single instance, which happened abouteighteen months after the arrival of Rob Roy. By that time I was goingfor rides of six or seven miles with Dixon, and the 'leading-rein' was athing of the past. I was also having jumping lessons, over a smallbrush-fence which he had put up in the paddock. One day, inflated withpride, I petitioned, rather shyly, to be allowed to go for a ride bymyself. Without consulting my aunt Dixon gave his permission; he seemedpleased, and entrusted me with the supreme responsibility of saddlingand bridling the pony without his help. I managed to do this, in mybungling way, and I have no doubt that I felt extremely important when Itit-tupped down to the village in that sleepy afternoon sunshine ofthirty years ago. Rob Roy probably shared my feeling of independence ashe shook his little black head and whisked his long tail at the flies. Iwas far too big a man to look back as we turned out of my aunt's whitegate into the dusty high road; but I can imagine now the keen sensitiveface of Dixon, and his reticent air of amusement as he watched us go outinto the world by ourselves. My legs were then long enough to give me apleasant feeling of security and mastery over my mount.

"Here we are, Rob," I remarked aloud, "off for a jolly good day with theDumborough."

And, in spite of the fact that it was a hot August afternoon, I allowedmy imagination to carry me on into fox-hunting adventures, during whichI distinguished myself supremely, and received the brush from the Masterafter a tremendous gallop over hill and vale. I must mention that myknowledge of the chase was derived from two sources: firstly, the thingsI had heard in my conversation with Dixon; and secondly, a vague butdiligent perusal of the novels of Surtees, whose humorous touches werealmost entirely lost on me, since I accepted every word he wrote as aliteral and serious transcription from life.

Anyhow, I had returned home with the brush and received thecongratulations of Dixon when my attention was attracted by an extragreen patch of clover-grass by the roadside: I was now about a milebeyond the village and nearly double that distance from home. It seemedto me that Rob must be in need of refreshment. So I dismounted andintimated to him that he ought to eat some grass. This he began to dowithout a moment's delay. But there was mischief in Rob Roy thatafternoon. With one knee bent he grabbed and munched at the grass withhis diminutive muzzle as though he hadn't had a meal for a month.Nevertheless, he must have been watching my movements with one of hislarge and intelligent eyes. With characteristic idiocy I left the reinsdangling on his neck and stepped back a little way to admire him. Thenext moment he had kicked up his heels and was cantering down the roadin the direction of his stable. It seemed to me the worst thing thatcould possibly have happened. It would take me years to live down thedisgrace. Panic seized me as I imagined the disasters which must haveovertaken Rob Roy on his way home--if he had gone home, which Iscarcely dared to hope. Probably his knees were broken and I shouldnever be able to look Dixon in the face again. In the meantime I musthurry as fast as my dismounted legs could carry me. If only I couldcatch sight of that wretched Rob Roy eating some more grass by theroadside! If only I hadn't let him go! If only I could begin my ride allover again! How careful I would be!

Hot and flustered, I was running miserably toward the village when Iturned a corner and saw, to my consternation, the narrow, stoopingfigure of Mr. Star. His eyes were on the ground, so I had time to slowdown to a dignified walk. I advanced to meet him with all thenonchalance that I could muster at the moment. The silver-hairedschoolmaster greeted me with his usual courtesy, as though he hadforgotten that he had been attempting to teach me arithmetic andgeography all the morning. But I was aware of the mild inquiry in hisglance. If only I'd been carrying my green butterfly-net instead of therather clumsy old hunting-crop of which I was usually so proud! I havenever been a clever dissembler, so I have no doubt that my wholedemeanour expressed the concealment of delinquency. Mr. Star removed hisblack, wideawake hat, wiped his forehead with a red handkerchief, andgenially ejaculated, "Well, well; what a gloriously fine afternoon weare having!"

As I was unable to say anything at all in reply, he continued, withgentle jocularity (running his eyes over the brown corduroy riding-suitwhich I was just beginning to grow out of), "And what have you done withyour pony? You look almost as if you'd lost him."

At this appallingly intuitive comment I gazed guiltily down at mygaiters and muttered abruptly, "Oh, I'm going to take him out after tea;I was just out for a walk."

My voice died unhappily away into the dusty sunshine.... After tea!For all I knew, darling Rob Roy might be dead by then.... For twopins I could have burst into tears at that moment, but I managed tocontrol my feelings: Mr. Star tactfully informed me that he must begetting on his way, and our constrained interview ended. Half an hourafterwards I slunk into the stable-yard with a sinking heart. Dixon'sblack retriever was dozing with his head out of his kennel under thewalnut tree. No one seemed to be about. I could hear the usualintermittent snorts and stampings from inside the stable. There were twostalls and a loose-box. My pony occupied the stall in the middle. Myheart thumped as I peeped over the door, the upper half of which wasopen. Rob Roy was facing me; he was attached to the 'pillar-reins,'still saddled and bridled. I am certain that his face wore a look ofamusement. A sense of profound relief stole over me.... A momentlater the stable-boy came whistling out of the barn with a bucket. Onseeing me he grinned derisively and I retreated toward the house indignified silence. As I passed the kitchen window Mrs. Sosburn, the fat,red-faced cook, dropped the cucumber which she was peeling and greetedme with a startled squeal.

"Lawks, Master Georgie, whatever 'ave you bin up to? The mistress 'asbeen in an awful state about you, and Dixon's gone down to the villageto look for you. We thought you must 'ave broke your neck when the ponycame trotting back without you."

And the well-meaning woman bustled officiously out to make sure I hadn'tany bones broken, followed by the gaping kitchen-maid; a moment laterthe parlour-maid came helter-skelter out of the pantry, and I wasinundated by exasperating female curiosity and concern.

"Gracious goodness! To think of him going off by himself like that, andno wonder he got thrown off, and the wonder is he wasn't killed, and thepony too," they chorused; whereupon my aunt's head popped out of anupper window and they clucked like hens as they reassured her about myundamaged return.

Infuriated by all this feminine fussiness I pushed past them andscurried up the back stairs to the schoolroom, whither Aunt Evelynimmediately followed me with additional exclamations and expostulations.I was now not only humiliated but sulky, and had I been a few yearsyounger my rudeness would have ended in my being smacked and sent tobed. As it was I was merely informed that unless I learnt to behavebetter I should never grow up into a nice man, and was left alone withmy tragic thoughts....

Next morning I paid my customary visit to the stable with a few lumps ofsugar in my pocket. Dixon was polishing a stirrup-iron at the door ofthe little harness-room; he stopped in the middle of a jaunty snatch ofsong to give me his usual greeting. All my embarrassment faded out ofme. His impassive face made not the slightest reference to yesterday'scalamity and this tactful silence more than ever assured me of hisinfinite superiority to those chattering females in the kitchen.

[IV]

Since the continuity of these memoirs is to depend solely on myexperiences as a sportsman, I need not waste many words on the winter,spring, summer, and autumn that chronologically followed the lastepisode which I narrated. Outwardly monotonous, my life was made up ofthat series of small inward happenings which belong to the developmentof any intelligent little boy who spends a fair amount of time with nocompanion but himself. In this way I continued to fabricate for myselfan intensely local and limited world. How faintly the vibrations of theouter world reached us on that rural atmosphere it is not easy toimagine in this later and louder age. When I was twelve years old Ihadn't been to London half a dozen times in my life, and the ten sleepymiles to the county town, whither the village carrier's van went threetimes a week, were a road to romance. Ten miles was a long way when Iwas a child. Over the hills and far away, I used to think to myself, asI stared across the orchards and meadows of the weald, along which ranthe proverbially slow railway line to London.

There were a few events which created in my mind an impression out ofproportion to the architecture of my earthly ideas. Among them was QueenVictoria's Diamond Jubilee (though I cannot pretend to remember exactlyhow it struck me at the time, except that I counted fifty bonfires fromthe hill near our house). This was balanced by Canterbury Cricket Week:(I went there by train with Dixon and spent a long hot day watchingPrince Ranjitsinhji make about 175 not out. My aunt's black Persian catwas called Ranji, which made the celebrated Indian cricketer quite acomfortable idea for me to digest).

Almost my favourite books were The Palace in the Garden and FourWinds Farm, both by Mrs. Molesworth. Naturally there were other moreimpressive phenomena which cropped up in my mental existence, such asScott's Ivanhoe and Longfellow's poem Excelsior, and Beethoven'spiano sonatas. But all these things clothed themselves in localassociations. Sir Walter Scott had no existence outside of my aunt'svoice as she read him aloud in the evening, Longfellow was associatedwith Mr. Star in the schoolroom, Beethoven lived somewhere behind thefaded silk on the back of the upright piano, and I never imagined any ofthem as in any other edition than those in which I knew them by sight.The large photograph of Watt's picture, 'Love and Death,' which hung inthe drawing-room, gave me the same feeling as the 'Moonlight' sonata,(my aunt could only play the first two movements).

In this brightly visualized world of simplicities and misapprehensionsand mispronounced names everything was accepted without question. I findit difficult to believe that young people see the world in that waynowadays, though it is probable that a good many of them do. Lookingback across the years I listen to the summer afternoon cooing of myaunt's white pigeons, and the soft clatter of their wings as theyflutter upward from the lawn at the approach of one of thewell-nourished cats. I remember, too, the smell of strawberry jam beingmade; and Aunt Evelyn with a green bee-veil over her head.... Thelarge rambling garden, with its Irish yews and sloping paths andwind-buffeted rose arches, remains to haunt my sleep. The quince treewhich grew beside the little pond was the only quince tree in the world.With a sense of abiding strangeness I see myself looking down from anupper window on a confusion of green branches shaken by the summerbreeze. In an endless variety of dream-distorted versions the gardenpersists as the background of my unconscious existence.

* * * * * * *

I had always been given to understand that I had a delicateconstitution. This was one of the reasons which my aunt urged against mybeing sent to school when Mr. Pennett, the pink-faced solicitor who hadcharge of our affairs, paid us one of his periodic visits and theproblem of my education was referred to in my presence. The solicitorused to come down from London for the day. In acknowledgment of hismasculinity my aunt always conceded him the head of the table at lunch.I can remember him carving a duck with evident relish, and saying insomewhat unctuous tones, "Have you reconsidered, my dear Miss Evelyn,the well-worn subject of a school for our young friend on my left?"

And I can hear my aunt replying in a fluttering voice that she hadalways been nervous about me since I had pneumonia (though she knewquite well that it was only slight inflammation of the lungs, and morethan two years ago at that). Fixing my gaze on his fat pearl tie-pin, Iwondered whether I really should ever go to school, and what it wouldfeel like when I got there. Nothing was said about Mr. Star, but Mr.Pennett usually had a private conversation with him on the subject of myprogress.

"Your guardian seems an extremely well-informed gentleman," Mr. Starwould say to me after one of these interviews. For Mr. Pennett had beento Harrow, and when Mr. Star spoke of him I was vaguely aware that hehad made the modest old man feel even more humble than usual. My auntwas perfectly satisfied with Mr. Star, and so was I. But the solicitorknew that I was growing out of my tutor; and so, perhaps, did Mr. Starhimself.... Indeed, I was getting to be quite a big boy for my age.People in the village were saying that I was 'filling out a fair treat,'and 'shooting up no end.'...

To one little incident I can give an exact date--not always an easything to do when one is looking back such a long way. It was in 1896, onthe last Wednesday in May, and I had just returned from my afternoonride. My aunt was out in the garden, wearing her leather gauntlets tocut some lilac, when I dashed excitedly across the lawn shouting, "Isn'tit splendid, Auntie--the Prince of Wales has won the Derby!"

"Oh, how splendid--has he really?" she exclaimed, dropping the branch ofwhite lilac which she had just snipped off the tree with her huge pairof scissors.

"Yes," I continued, bursting with the important news, "we stopped at thestation on our way home, and the station-master showed Dixon thetelegram."

"What was it called?" she queried.

"Persimmon, of course; I should have thought you'd have known that!"

"Really, Georgie dear, you shouldn't speak so rudely to your aunt."

I was silent for a moment, feeling crestfallen. Then I remarked, in asubdued voice: "Earwig was third."

"Earwig! What an odd name for a horse!" And then, as I bent down to pickup a spray of lilac, she added: "Good gracious, darling, how you'vegrown out of your riding-breeks! I really must get you another corduroysuit."...

But my increasing size had another and far more important effect. I wasgrowing out of Rob Roy. My aunt showed her inevitable lack of initiativein the matter: she said that a small pony was safer for me. During thesummer, however, Dixon persistently drew her attention to the obviousfact that my legs were getting nearer and nearer to the ground, althoughhe had the highest respect for gallant little Rob Roy, who was belovedby all who knew him. The end of it was that a 'perfect home' was foundfor him, and he trotted out of my life as gaily as he had trotted intoit. After his departure I had a good cry by myself in the kitchengarden.

"I shall never be so fond of anyone again as I was of Rob Roy," Ithought, mopping my eyes with a grubby handkerchief. Subsequent eventsproved my prophecy incorrect. And anyhow it was a fine day, early inSeptember; a few minutes afterwards I was clambering up into a plumtree. The plums were particularly good that year.

* * * * * * *

As might be expected, Dixon lost no time in discovering an adequatesubstitute for my vanished favourite. For several weeks he remainedreticent on the subject, except that once or twice he mentionedmysteriously that he thought he had heard of something. Conscientiousinquiries among coachmen, innkeepers, and the local vet. and theinsertion of an advertisement in the county paper, culminated in thearrival of a fourteen-hand, mouse-coloured Welsh cog called Sheila. Thesight of Sheila struck awe into my heart. She looked as much too big forme as Rob Roy had looked too small. I also divined that she wasenormously expensive.

"Do you really think Master George'll be able to manage her, Dixon?"asked my aunt, regarding Sheila with deprecatory approbation. Dixonreiterated his belief that the mare was thoroughly handy and as quiet asan old sheep; he added that we'd never get such a bargain again forthirty pounds.

"Jump on her back, Master George, and see if she doesn't give you a goodfeel," suggested that inexorably encouraging voice which was to make asportsman of me. Whereupon he quickly circumvented the obvious fact thatthis was no jumping matter by giving me a leg-up into the saddle (anearly full-sized one). There was no doubt at all that I was a long wayfrom the ground. Rather timidly I surveyed the stable-yard from my newaltitude. Then Dixon led the cob carefully through the gate into thepaddock and she broke into a springy trot.

[V]

November, with its darkening afternoons and smell of burning weeds,found me gradually becoming acclimatized to 'the new mare,' as Iimportantly called her (using Dixonian phraseology). The groom was ableto give me all his attention, since my aunt never rode in the winter. Wenow went longer distances; sometimes he would tell me that we were 'onthe edge of the Dumborough country,' and he would pull up and point outto me, a few miles away, some looming covert where they often went todraw.

The Dumborough, as I afterwards discovered, was a scrambling sort ofcountry to hunt in--heavily wooded and hilly. But as we turned away fromits evening-lighted landscape I would listen eagerly to Dixon'sanecdotes of the sport he had seen there. He spoke often of Mr.Macdoggart, Lord Dumborough's hard-riding agent, and how one year he hadseen him win the Hunt Steeplechase by a short head from a famous'gentleman-rider'; and how, another year, Mr. Macdoggart had gotconcussion of the brain while riding in the same race.

Our afternoon expeditions usually took us in the Dumborough direction,and I suspect that Dixon always had a faint hope that we might 'chip inwith the hounds,' though he knew too well that the foxes rarely ran ourway. He also showed an increasing antipathy to the high road, and wascontinually taking short cuts across the country.

"It'll do them good to have a pipe-opener," he would say, turning in ata gate and setting his horse going up a long stretch of meadow, and myconfidence in Sheila increased as I scuttled after him.

Sometimes he would pretend to be 'riding a finish,' and I would say,"Tom, show me how Mr. Macdoggart won the Hunt Cup on Nobleman."

I had never seen a race in my life; nor had I ever been to a meet of thehounds. But I assiduously studied the novels of Surtees, of which myaunt had a complete set. She dipped into them herself now and again, andwe often used to talk about Mr. Jorrocks.

As Christmas approached Dixon drew her attention to my rapid improvementas a rider. Finally he took the bull by the horns and intimated that itwould do me no harm to go and have a look at the hounds. She seemedtaken aback by this, but he assured her that he would only take me asfar as the meet. When she suggested that he could drive me there in thedog-cart Dixon's face assumed such an air of disapproval that she gaveway at once, and it became only a matter of waiting for the next 'nearmeet.'

"I think, 'm, you can rely on me to take proper care of Master George,"he remarked rather stiffly; the next moment he looked at me with a grinof delight followed by a solemn wink with the eye furthest away from myaunt.

A few days later I found him studying the local paper in theleather-smelling little harness-room. "They're meeting at FinchurstGreen on Saturday," he announced with appropriate seriousness. It was animportant moment in my life. Finchurst Green was not quite nine milesaway.

* * * * * * *

It was a grey and chilly world that I went out into when I started formy first day's fox-hunting. The winter-smelling air met me as thoughwith a hint that serious events were afoot. Silently I stood in thestable-yard while Dixon led Sheila out of her stall. His demeanour wasbusinesslike and reticent. The horses and their accoutrements werepolished up to perfection, and he himself, in his dark-grey clothes andhard black hat, looked a model of discretion and neatness. The only onewho lacked confidence was myself.

Stuffing a packet of sandwiches into my pocket and pulling on myuncomfortably new gloves, I felt half-aware of certain shortcomings inmy outward appearance. Ought one really to go out hunting in a browncorduroy suit with a corduroy jockey-cap made to match the suit? Didother boys wear that sort of thing?... I was conscious, too, thatDixon was regarding me with an unusually critical eye. Mute andflustered, I mounted. Sheila seemed very fresh, and the saddle felt coldand slippery. As we trotted briskly through the village everything hadan austerely unfamiliar look about it, and my replies to Dixon wereclumsy and constrained.

Yet the village was its ordinary village-self. The geese were goingsingle file across the green, and Sibson, the lame shoeing-smith, wasclinking his hammer in the forge as usual. He peered out at us as wepassed, and I saluted him with a slightly forlorn wave of the hand. Hegrinned and ducked his head. Sheila had had her shoes looked to the daybefore, so he knew all about where we were going.

As we jogged out of the village Dixon gazed sagaciously at the sky andsaid with a grim smile, "I'll bet they run like blazes to-day, there'sjust the right nip in the air," and he made the horses cock their earsby imitating the sound of a hunting-horn--a favourite little trick ofhis. Secretly I wondered what I should do if they 'ran like blazes.' Itwas all very well for him--he'd been out hunting dozens of times!

As we neared the meet I became more and more nervous. Not many of thehunting people came from our side of the country, and we saw no otherhorsemen to distract my attention until we rounded a bend of the road,and there at last was Finchurst Green, with the hounds clustering in acorner and men in red coats and black coats moving to and fro to keeptheir horses from getting chilled. But this is not the last meet that Ishall describe, so I will not invent details which I cannot remember,since I was too awed and excited and self-conscious to be capable ofobserving anything clearly.

Once we had arrived, Dixon seemed to become a different Dixon, sodignified and aloof that I scarcely dared speak to him. Of course I knewwhat it meant: I was now his 'young gentleman,' and he was only thegroom who had brought me to 'have a look at the hounds.' But there wasno one at the meet who knew me, so I sat there, shy and silent--aware ofbeing a newcomer in a strange world which I did not understand. Also Iwas quite sure that I should make a fool of myself. Other people havefelt the same, but this fact would have been no consolation to me at thetime, even if I could have realized it.

* * * * * * *

My first period of suspense ended when with much bobbing up and down ofhats the cavalcade moved off along the road. I looked round for Dixon,but he allowed me to be carried on with the procession; he kept closebehind me, however. He had been sensible enough to refrain fromconfusing me with advice before we started, and I can see now that hisdemeanour continued to be full of intuitive tactfulness. But he wastalking to another groom, and I felt that I was being scrutinized anddiscussed. I was riding alongside of a large, lolloping lady in a bluehabit; she did not speak to me; she confined herself to a series ofexpostulatory remarks to her horse which seemed too lively and wentbouncing along sideways with its ears back, several times bumping intoSheila, whose behaviour was sedately alert.

Soon we turned in at some lodge-gates, crossed the corner of anundulating park, and then everyone pulled up outside a belt of brownwoodland. The hounds had disappeared, but I could hear the huntsman'svoice a little way off. He was making noises which I identified as notaltogether unlike those I had read about in Surtees. After a time thechattering crowd of riders moved slowly into the wood which appeared tobe a large one.

My first reaction to the 'field' was one of mute astonishment. I hadtaken it for granted that there would be people 'in pink,' but theseenormous confident strangers overwhelmed my mind with the visibleauthenticity of their brick-red coats. It all felt quite different toreading Surtees by the schoolroom fire.

But I was too shy to stare about me, and every moment I was expecting anoutburst of mad excitement in which I should find myself gallopingwildly out of the wood. When the outbreak of activity came I had no timeto think about it. For no apparent reason the people around me (we weremoving slowly along a narrow path in the wood) suddenly set off at agallop and for several minutes I was aware of nothing but the breathlessflurry of being carried along, plentifully spattered with mud by thesportsman in front of me. Suddenly, without any warning, he pulled up.Sheila automatically followed suit, shooting me well up her neck. Thenext moment everyone turned round and we all went tearing back by theway we had come. I found Dixon in front of me now, and he turned hishead with a grin of encouragement.

Soon afterwards the hunt came to a standstill in an open space in themiddle of the wood: the excitement seemed to be abating, and I felt thatfox-hunting wasn't so difficult as I'd expected it to be. A little waybelow I could hear a confused baying of the hounds among the trees.Then, quite close to where I had halted, a tall man in a blue velvet capand vermilion coat came riding out from among the undergrowth with onearm up to shield his face from the branches. His face was very red andhe seemed upset about something. Turning in my direction he bawled outin an angry voice, "What the bloody hell do you think you're here for?"

For a moment I sat petrified with terror and amazement. He was ridingstraight at me, and I had no time to wonder what I had done to incur hisdispleasure. So I stared helplessly until I was aware that he had passedme and was addressing someone immediately behind my horse's heels....Looking round I saw a surly-featured elderly man with side-whiskers: hewas on foot and wore the weathered garments of a gamekeeper.

"What the hell do you mean by leaving the main-earth unstopped?" theinfuriated voice continued.

"Very sorry, m'lord," the man mumbled, "but I never heard you was comingtill this morning, and----"

"Don't answer me back. I'll get you sacked for this when Major Gamblecomes down from Scotland. I tell you I'm sick of you and your god-damnedpheasants," and before the man could say any more the outraged noblemanwas pushing his way into the undergrowth again and was bawling "Go on toHoath Wood, Jack," to the invisible huntsman.

I looked at Dixon, whose horse was nibbling Sheila's neck. "That's theMaster," he said in a low voice, adding, "his lordship's a rough onewith his tongue when anyone gets the wrong side of him." Silently Idecided that Lord Dumborough was the most terrifying man I had everencountered....

Dixon was explaining that our fox had gone to ground and I heard anotherman near me saying: "That blighter Gamble thinks of nothing butshooting. The place is crawling with birds, and the wonder is that weever found a fox. Last time we were here we drew the whole place blank,and old D. cursed the keeper's head off and accused him of poisoning thefoxes, so I suppose he did it to get a bit of his own back!" Such was myintroduction to the mysteries of 'earth-stopping.'...

The comparatively mild activities of the morning had occupied a coupleof hours. We now trotted away from Major Gamble's preserves. It wasabout three miles to Hoath Wood; on the way several small spinneys weredrawn blank, but Hoath Wood was a sure find, so Dixon said, and a rareplace to get a gallop from. This caused a perceptible evaporation of thecourage which I had been accumulating, and when there was a halt for thehunt-servants to change on to their second horses I made an attempt todispel my qualms by pulling out my packet of sandwiches.

While I was munching away at these I noticed for the first time anotherboy of about my own age. Dixon was watching him approvingly. Evidentlythis was a boy to be imitated, and my own unsophisticated eyes alreadytold me that. He was near enough to us for me to be able to observe himminutely. A little aloof from the large riders round him, he sat easily,but very upright, on a corky chestnut pony with a trimmed stump of atail and a neatly 'hogged' neck.

Reconstructing that far-off moment, my memory fixes him in acharacteristic attitude. Leaning slightly forward from the waist, hestraightens his left leg and scrutinizes it with an air of criticalabstraction. He seems to be satisfied with his smart buff breeches andnatty brown gaiters. Everything he has on is neat and compact. Hecarries a small crop with a dark leather thong, which he flicks at atuft of dead grass in a masterly manner. An air of self-possessedefficiency begins with his black bowler hat, continues in his neatlytied white stock, and gets its finishing touch in the short, blunt,shining spurs on his black walking boots. (I was greatly impressed bythe fact that he wore spurs.) All his movements were controlled andmodest, but there was a suggestion of arrogance in the steady,unrecognizing stare which he gave me when he became conscious that I waslooking at him so intently. Our eyes met, and his calm scrutiny remindedme of my own deficiencies in dress. I shifted uneasily in my saddle, andthe clumsy unpresentable old hunting-crop fell out of my hand.Dismounting awkwardly to pick it up, I wished that it, also, had a thong(though this would make the double reins more difficult to manage), andI hated my silly jockey-cap and the badly fitting gaiters which pinchedmy legs and always refused to remain in the correct position (indicatedby Dixon). When I had scrambled up on to Sheila again--a feat which Icould only just accomplish without assistance--I felt what a poor figureI must be cutting in Dixon's eyes while he compared me with that otherboy, who had himself turned away with a slight smile and was now soberlyfollowing the dappled clustering pack and its attendant red-coats asthey disappeared over the green rising ground on their way to HoathWood.

* * * * * * *

By all the laws of aunthood we should by now have been well on our wayhome. But Dixon was making a real day of it. The afternoon hunt wasgoing to be a serious affair. There never appeared to be any doubt aboutthat. The field was reduced to about forty riders, and the chattersomecontingent seemed to have gone home. We all went into the covert andremained close together at one end. Dixon got off and tightened mygirths, which had got very loose (as I ought to have noticed). Aresolute-looking lady in a tall hat drew her veil down after taking agood pull at the flask which she handed back to her groom. Hard-facedmen rammed their hats on to their heads and sat silently in the saddleas though, for the first time in the day, they really meant business. Myheart was in my mouth and it had good reason to be there. LordDumborough was keeping an intent eye on the ride which ran through themiddle of the covert.

"Cut along up to the top end, Charlie," he remarked without turning hishead; and a gaunt, ginger-haired man in a weather-stained scarlet coatwent off up the covert in a squelchy canter.

"That's Mr. Macdoggart," said Dixon in a low voice, and my solemnityincreased as the legendary figure vanished on its mysterious errand.

Meanwhile the huntsman was continuing his intermittent yaups as he movedalong the other side of the wood. Suddenly his cheers of encouragementchanged to a series of excited shoutings. "Hoick-holler, hoick-holler,hoick-holler!" he yelled and then blew his horn loudly; this wasfollowed by an outbreak of vociferation from the hounds, and soon theywere in full cry across the covert. I sat there petrified by my privatefeelings; Sheila showed no symptoms of agitation; she merely cocked herears well forward and listened.

And then, for the first time, I heard a sound which has thrilledgenerations of fox-hunters to their marrow. From the far side of thewood came the long shrill screech (for which it is impossible to find anadequate word) which signifies that one of the whips has viewed the foxquitting the covert. "Gone Away" it meant. But before I had formulatedthe haziest notion about it Lord Dumborough was galloping up the rideand the rest of them were pelting after him as though nothing could stopthem. As I happened to be standing well inside the wood and Sheila tookthe affair into her own control, I was swept along with them, and weemerged on the other side among the leaders.

I cannot claim that I felt either excitement or resolution as we bundleddown a long slope of meadowland and dashed helter-skelter through anopen gate at the bottom. I knew nothing at all except that I was out ofbreath and that the air was rushing to meet me, but as I hung on to thereins I was aware that Mr. Macdoggart was immediately in front of me. Myattitude was an acquiescent one. I have always been inclined to acceptlife in the form in which it has imposed itself upon me, and on thatparticular occasion, no doubt, I just felt that I was 'in for it.' Itdid not so much as occur to me that in following Mr. Macdoggart I wassetting myself rather a high standard, and when he disappeared over ahedge I took it for granted that I must do the same. For a moment Sheilahesitated in her stride. (Dixon told me afterwards that I actually hither as we approached the fence, but I couldn't remember having done so.)Then she collected herself and jumped the fence with a peculiar archingof her back. There was a considerable drop on the other side. Sheilamade no mistake, but as she landed I left the saddle and flew over herhead. I had let go of the reins, but she stood stock-still while I saton the wet ground. A few moments later Dixon popped over a gap lowerdown the fence and came to my assistance, and I saw the boy on thechestnut pony come after him and gallop on in a resolute but unhurryingway. I scrambled to my feet, feeling utterly ashamed.

"Whatever made you go for it like that?" asked Dixon, who was quitedisconcerted.

"I saw Mr. Macdoggart going over it, and I didn't like to stop," Istammered. By now the whole hunt had disappeared and there wasn't asound to be heard.

"Well, I suppose we may as well go on." He laughed as he gave me aleg-up. "Fancy you following Mr. Macdoggart over the biggest place inthe fence. Good thing Miss Sherston couldn't see you."

The idea of my aunt seemed to amuse him, and he slapped his knee andchuckled as he led me onward at a deliberate pace. Secretly mortified bymy failure I did my best to simulate cheerfulness. But I couldn't forgetthe other boy and how ridiculous he must have thought me when he saw merolling about on the ground. I felt as if I must be covered with mud.About half an hour later we found the hunt again, but I can remembernothing more except that it was beginning to get dark and the huntsman,a middle-aged, mulberry faced man named Jack Pitt, was blowing his hornas he sat in the middle of his hounds. The other boy was actuallytalking to him--a privilege I couldn't imagine myself promoted to. Atthat moment I almost hated him for his cocksureness.

Then to my surprise, the Master himself actually came up and asked mehow far I was from home. In my embarrassment I could only mutter that Ididn't know, and Dixon interposed with "About twelve miles, m'lord," inhis best manner.

"I hear he's quite a young thruster."... The great man glanced at mefor a moment with curiosity before he turned away. Not knowing what hemeant I went red in the face and thought he was making fun of me.

* * * * * * *

Now that I have come to the end of my first day's hunting I am temptedto moralize about it. But I have already described it at greater lengththan I had intended, so I will only remind myself of the tea I had at aninn on the way home. The inn was kept by a friend of Dixon's--anex-butler who 'had been with Lord Dumborough for years.' I well rememberthe snug fire-lit parlour where I ate my two boiled eggs, and how theinnkeeper and his wife made a fuss over me. Dixon, of course,transferred me to them in my full status of 'one of the quality,' andthen disappeared to give the horses their gruel and get his own tea inthe kitchen. I set off on the ten dark miles home in a glow of satisfiedachievement, and we discussed every detail of the day except mydisaster. Dixon had made inquiries about 'the other young gentleman,'and had learnt that his name was Milden and that he was staying atDumborough Park for Christmas. He described him as a proper littlesportsman; but I was reticent on the subject. Nor did I refer to thequestion of our going out with the hounds again. By the time we werehome I was too tired to care what anybody in the world thought about me.

[VI]

It was nearly seven o'clock when we got home; as Aunt Evelyn had begunto expect me quite early in the afternoon, she was so intensely relievedto see me safe and sound that she almost forgot to make a fuss about myprolonged absence. Dixon, with his persuasive manner next morning, soonhoodwinked her into taking it all as a matter of course. He made our daysound so safe and confidential. Not a word was said about my havingtumbled off (and he had carefully brushed every speck of mud off my backwhen we stopped at the inn for tea).

As for myself, I began to believe that I hadn't done so badly after all.I talked quite big about it when I was alone with my aunt at lunch onSunday, and she was delighted to listen to everything I could tell herabout my exploits. Probably it was the first time in my life that I wasconscious of having got the upper hand of my grown-up relative. When sheasked whether there were 'any other little boys out on their ponies' Iwas nonplussed for a moment; I couldn't connect young Milden with such adisrespectful way of speaking. Little boys out on their ponies indeed! Ihad more than half a mind to tell her how I'd followed the great Mr.Macdoggart over that fence, but I managed to remind myself that the lesssaid about that incident the better for my future as a fox-hunter.

"Yes," I replied, "there was a very nice boy on a splendid littlechestnut. He's staying at Dumborough Park." When I told her his name sheremembered having met some of his people years ago when she was stayingin Northamptonshire. They had a big place near Daventry, she said, andwere a well-known sporting family. I packed these details away in mymind with avidity. Already I was weaving Master Milden into myday-dreams, and soon he had become my inseparable companion in all myimagined adventures, although I was hampered by the fact that I onlyknew him by his surname. It was the first time that I experienced afeeling of wistfulness for someone I wanted to be with.

* * * * * * *

As a rule I was inclined to be stand-offish about children's parties,though there weren't many in our part of the world. There was to be adance at Mrs. Shotney's the next Friday, and I wasn't looking forward toit much until my aunt told me that she had heard from Mrs. Cofferdamthat Lady Dumborough was going to be there with a large party of jollyyoung people. "So perhaps you'll see your little hunting friend again,"she added.

"He's not little; he looks about two years older than me," I retortedhuffily, and at once regretted my stupidity. 'My hunting friend!' I hadbeen allowing her to assume that we had 'made friends' out hunting. Andwhen we were at the party she would be sure to find out that he didn'tknow me. But perhaps he wouldn't be there after all. Whereupon Irealized that I should be bitterly disappointed if he wasn't.

At seven o'clock on Friday we set off in the village fly. While wejolted along in that musty smelling vehicle with its incessantlyrattling windows I was anxious and excited. These feelings wereaugmented by shyness and gawkiness by the time I had entered theballroom, which was full of antlers and old armour. Standing by myselfin a corner I fidgetted with my gloves. Now and again I glancednervously round the room. Sleek-haired little boys in Eton jackets wereengaging themselves for future dances with pert little girls in shortfrocks. Shyness was being artificially dispelled by solicitous ladies,one of whom now swooped down on me and led me away to be introduced toequally unenterprising partners. The room was filling up, and I was soonjostling and bumping round with a demure little girl in a pink dress,while the local schoolmaster, a solemn man with a walrus moustache,thrummed out 'The Blue Danube' on an elderly upright piano, reinforcedby a squeaky violinist who could also play the cornet; he often did itat village concerts, so my partner informed me, biting her lip assomeone trod on her foot. Steering my clumsy course round the room, Iwondered whether Lady Dumborough had arrived yet.

There was Aunt Evelyn, talking to Mrs. Shotney. She certainly didn'tlook half bad when you compared her with other people. And old SquireMaundle, nodding and smiling by the door, as he watched his littlegrand-daughter twirling round and round with a yellow ribbon in herhair. And General FitzAlan with his eyeglass--he looked a jolly decentold chap.... He'd been in the Indian Mutiny.... The music stoppedand the dancers disappeared in quest of claret-cup and lemonade. "Iwonder what sort of ices there are," speculated my partner. There was anote of intensity in her voice which was new to me.

* * * * * * *

"Oh, do come on, Denis, the music's begun," cried a dark, attractivegirl with a scarlet sash--tugging at the arm of a boy who was occupiedwith an ice. When he turned to follow her I recognized the rider of thechestnut pony. From time to time as the evening went on I watched himenjoying himself with the conspicuous Dumborough Park contingent, whichwas dominating the proceedings with a mixture of rowdiness and hauteur.Those outside their circle regarded them with envious and admiringantagonism. By a miracle I found myself sitting opposite Denis Milden atsupper, which was at one long table. He looked across at me with areserved air of recognition.

"Weren't you out last Saturday?" he asked. I said yes.

"Rotten day, wasn't it?" I said yes it was rather.

"That's a nice cob you were on. Jumped a bit too big for you at thatfence outside Hoath Wood, didn't she?" He grinned good-humouredly. Iwent red in the face, but managed to blurt out a confused inquiry afterthe health of his chestnut pony. But before he could reply theDumborough boy had shouted something at him and I was obliged to payattention again to the little girl alongside of me.

"Do you hunt much?" she inquired, evidently impressed by what she hadoverheard. Rather loftily I replied that I hunted whenever I got thechance, inwardly excusing myself with the thought that it wasn't my ownfault that I'd only had one chance so far....

I was now positively enjoying the party, but shortly afterwards AuntEvelyn came gliding across the dark polished floor at the end of polkaand adroitly extricated me from the festivities.... "Really, darling,don't you think it's almost time we went home?"

I wished she wouldn't call me darling in public, but I fetched myovercoat and followed obediently down to the draughty entrance hall.Denis happened to be sitting on the stairs with his partner. He jumpedup politely to allow my aunt to pass. I shot a shy glance at his face.

"Coming to Heron's Gate on Tuesday?" he asked. Deeply gratified, I saidI was afraid it was too far for me.

"You ought to try and get there. They say it's one of their best meets."He sat down again with a nod and a smile.

"Wasn't that young Milden--the nice-mannered boy you spoke to as we wentout?" asked Aunt Evelyn when our rattle-trap conveyance was grindingbriskly down the road to the lodge-gates.

"Yes," I replied; and the monosyllable meant much.

[VII]

Next morning I was a rather inattentive pupil, but Mr. Star rightlyattributed this to the previous night's gaities and was lenient with me,though my eyes often wandered through the window when they ought to havebeen occupied with sums, and I made a bad mess of my dictation. Mr. Starwas still great on dictation, though I ought to have been beyond suchelementary exercises at the age of twelve. 'Parsing' was anotherfavourite performance of his.

The word parse always struck me as sounding slightly ridiculous: evennow it makes me smile when I look at it; but it conjures up for me avery clear picture of that quiet schoolroom: myself in a brown woollenjersey with my elbows on the table, and my tutor in his shabbytail-coat, chalking up on the blackboard for my exclusive benefit thefirst proposition of Euclid. Above the bookcase (which contained an oddassortment of primers, poetry, and volumes of adventure) hung a map ofthe world--a shiny one, which rolled up. But the map of the world wastoo large for me that morning, and I was longing to look at the localone and find out how far it was to Heron's Gate (and where it was).

As soon as Mr. Star had gone home to his little house in the village Islyly abstracted the ordnance map from the shelf where my aunt kept it(she was rather fond of consulting the map), and carried it back to theschoolroom with a sensation of gloating uncertainty. Heron's Gate washard to find, but I arrived at it in the end, marked in very small printwith Windmill right up against it and a big green patch called ParkWood quite near. I wondered what it would look like, and at oncevisualized a large, dim bird sitting on a white gate.... I had neverseen a heron, but it sounded nice.... But when I began measuring thedistance with a bit of string both bird and gate were obliterated by themelancholy number of miles which meandered across the map. The stringtold its tale too plainly. Heron's Gate was a good twelve miles togo....

The situation now seemed desperate, but Dixon might be able to dosomething about it. Without saying a word to Aunt Evelyn I waited untilwe were well away on our afternoon ride, and then asked, quite casually,"Have you ever been to Heron's Gate, Tom?" (I had been telling him aboutthe dance, but had not mentioned Denis Milden.) Dixon gravely admittedthat he knew Heron's Gate quite well. There was a short silence, duringwhich he pulled his horse back into a walk. "Is it far from us?" Iremarked innocently. He pondered for a moment. "Let's see--it's some waythe other side of Hugget's Hill.... About twelve miles from us, Ishould think." I fingered Sheila's mane and tried another tack. "How farwere we from home when we finished up the other night?"

"About twelve miles."

Unable to restrain myself any longer, I blurted out my eagerness to goto the meet next Tuesday. I never suspected that Dixon had known thisall the time, though I might have guessed that he had looked up the listof meets in the local paper. But he was evidently pleased that mysporting instinct was developing so rapidly, and he refrained fromasking why I specially wanted to go to Heron's Gate. It was enough forhim that I wanted to go out at all. We duped Aunt Evelyn by a system ofmutual falsification of distances (I couldn't find the map anywhere whenshe wanted to look it up), and at half-past eight on the Tuesdaymorning, in glittering sunshine, with a melting hoar-frost on thehedgerows, we left home for Heron's Gate.

* * * * * * *

Emboldened by the fact that I was going out hunting with an inwardpurpose of my own, I clip-clopped alongside of Dixon with my head wellin the air. The cold morning had made my fingers numb, but my thoughtsmoved freely in a warmer climate of their own. I was being magnetized toa distant meet of the hounds, not so much through my sporting instinctas by the appeal which Denis Milden had made to my imagination. That hewould be there was the idea uppermost in my mind. My fears lest I shouldagain make a fool of myself were, for the moment, as far below me as myfeet. Humdrum home life was behind me; in the freshness of the morning Iwas setting out for an undiscovered country....

My reverie ended when Sheila slithered on a frozen puddle and Dixon toldme to pay attention to what I was doing and not slouch about in thesaddle. Having brought me back to reality he inspected his watch andsaid we were well up to time. A mile or two before we got to the meet hestopped at an inn, where he put our horses into the stable for twentyminutes, 'to give them a chance to stale.' Then, seeing that I waslooking rather pinched with the cold, he took me indoors and ordered alarge glass of hot milk, which I should be jolly glad of, he said,before the day was out. The inn-parlour smelt of stale liquor, but Ienjoyed my glass of milk.

The meet itself was an intensified rendering of my initiatory one. I wasawed by my consciousness of having come twelve miles from home. And thescene was made significant by the phrase 'one of their best meets.' Inthe light of that phrase everything appeared a little larger than life:voices seemed louder, coats a more raucous red, and the entireatmosphere more acute with imminent jeopardy than at Finchurst Green.Hard-bitten hunting-men rattled up in gigs, peeled off their outercoverings, and came straddling along the crowded lane to look for theirnags. Having found them, they spoke in low tones to the groom and swungthemselves importantly into the saddle as though there were indeed somedesperate business on hand....

Heron's Gate was a featureless wayside inn at the foot of a green knoll.I had not yet caught a glimpse of Denis when the procession moved awaytoward Park Wood, but I looked upward and identified the bulky blackWindmill, which seemed to greet me with a friendly wave of its sails, asmuch as to say, "Here I am, you see--a lot bigger than they marked me onthe map!" The Windmill consoled me; it seemed less inhuman, in its ownway, than the brusque and bristling riders around me. When we turned offthe road and got on to a sodden tussocked field, they all began to be ina hurry; their horses bucked and snorted and shook their heads as theyshot past me--the riders calling out to one another with uncouthmatutinal jocularities.

I was frightened, and I might have wondered why I was there at all if Ihad been old enough to analyze my emotions. As it was I felt lessforlorn and insecure when we pulled up outside Park Wood and I caughtsight of Denis on his chestnut pony. For the time being, however, he wasunapproachable. With a gesture of characteristic independence he hadturned his back on the jostling riders, who were going one by one intothe wood through a narrow hunting-gate. I envied the unhesitatingself-reliance with which he cantered along the field, turned his pony toput it at the low fence, and landed unobtrusively in the wood. It wasall accomplished with what I should to-day describe as an unbrokenrhythm. Thirty years ago I simply thought "Why can't I ride like that?"as I tugged nervously at Sheila's sensitive mouth and only just avoidedbumping my knee against the gatepost as I went blundering into thecovert. Dixon conducted me along one of the by-paths which branched fromthe main-ride down the middle.

"We'll have to keep our ears open or they'll slip away without us," heremarked sagely. "It's an awkward old place to get a fox away from,though, and we may be here most of the morning." Secretly I hoped weshould be.

Where we rode the winter sunshine was falling warmly into the wood,though the long grass in the shadows was still flaked with frost. Ablackbird went scolding away among the undergrowth, and a jay wassetting up a clatter in an ivied oak. Some distance off Jack Pitt wasshouting 'Yoi-over' and tooting his horn in a leisurely sort of style.Then we turned a corner and came upon Denis. He had pulled his ponyacross the path, and his face wore a glum look which, as I afterwardslearnt to know, merely signified that, for the moment, he had foundnothing worth thinking about. The heavy look lifted as I approached himwith a faltering smile, but he nodded at me with blunt solemnity, as ifwhat thoughts he had were elsewhere.

"Morning. So you managed to get here." That was all I got by way ofgreeting. Somewhat discouraged, I could think of no conversationalcontinuance. But Dixon gave him the respectful touch of the hat due to a'proper little sportsman' and, more enterprising than I, supplementedthe salute with "Bit slow in finding this morning sir?"

"Won't be much smell to him when they do. Sun's too bright for that." Hehad the voice of a boy, but his manner was severely grown-up.

There was a brief silence, and then his whole body seemed to stiffen ashe stared fixedly at the undergrowth. Something rustled the dead leaves;not more than ten yards from where we stood, a small russet animal stoleout on to the path and stopped for a photographic instant to take a lookat us. It was the first time I had ever seen a fox, though I have seen agreat many since--both alive and dead. By the time he had slipped out ofsight again I had just begun to realize what it was that had looked atme with such human alertness. Why I should have behaved as I did I willnot attempt to explain, but when Denis stood up in his stirrups andemitted a shrill "Huick-holler," I felt spontaneously alarmed for thefuture of the fox.

"Don't do that; they'll catch him!" I exclaimed.

The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I knew I had made anotherfool of myself. Denis gave me one blank look and galloped off to meetthe huntsman, who could already be heard horn-blowing in our directionin a maximum outburst of energy.

"Where'd ye see 'im cross, sir?" he exclaimed, grinning at Denis withhis great purple face, as he came hustling along with a few of hishounds at his horse's heels.

Denis indicated the exact spot; a moment later the hounds had hit offthe line, and for the next ten or fifteen minutes I was so activelypreoccupied with my exertions in following Dixon up and down Park Woodthat my indiscretion was temporarily obliterated. I was, in fact, sobusy and flurried that I knew nothing of what was happening except that'our fox' was still running about inside the wood. When he did take tothe open he must have slipped away unnoticed, for after we had emergedthe hounds feathered dubiously over a few fields and very soon I foundmyself at a standstill.

Dixon was beside me, and he watched intently the mysterious operationsof Jack Pitt, who was trotting across a ploughed field with the packbehind him. Dixon explained that he was 'making a cast.' "He must be along way ahead of us; they could scarcely speak to him after they tookthe line out of covert," he commented.

All this was incomprehensible to me, but I was warned by my previousblunder and confined myself to a discreet nod. Dixon then advised me notto wear my cap on the back of my head: I pulled the wretched thing welldown over my eyes and made a supreme effort to look like a 'hard man tohounds'... I watched the riders who were chatting to one another insunlit groups; they seemed to be regarding the proceedings of Jack Pittwith leisurely indifference.

Denis, as usual, had detached himself from his immediate surroundings,and was keeping an alert eye on the huntsman's head as it bobbed up anddown along the far side of a fence. Dixon then made his only referenceto my recent misconception of the relationship between foxes and hounds."Young Mr. Milden won't think much of you if you talk like that. He musthave thought you a regular booby!" Flushed and mortified, I promised tobe more careful in future. But I knew only too well what a mollycoddle Ihad made of myself in the estimation of the proper little sportsman onwhom I had hoped to model myself.... "Don't do that; they'll catchhim!"... It was too awful to dwell on. Lord Dumborough would becertain to hear about it, and would think worse of me than ever he didof a keeper who left the earths unstopped.... And even now some verysporting-looking people were glancing at me and laughing to one anotherabout something. What else could they be laughing about except mymollycoddle remark? Denis must have told them, of course. My heart wasfull of misery.... Soon afterwards I said in a very small voice, "Ithink I want to go home now, Tom."... On the way home I rememberedthat Denis didn't even know my name.

Part Two
The Flower Show Match

[I]

Ten minutes late, in the hot evening sunshine, my train bustledcontentedly along between orchards and hop gardens, jolted past thesignal-box, puffed importantly under the bridge, and slowed up atBaldock Wood. The station was exactly the same as usual and I was verypleased to see it again. I was back from Ballboro' for the summerholidays. As I was going forward to the guard's van to identify my trunkand my wooden play-box, the station-master (who, in those days, wore atop-hat and a baggy black frock-coat) saluted me respectfully. AuntEvelyn always sent him a turkey at Christmas.

Having claimed my luggage I crossed the bridge, surrendered my ticket toa red-nosed and bearded collector, who greeted me good-naturedly, andemerged from the station with my cricket-bat (which was wrapped in mycricket-pads) under my arm. Dixon was waiting outside with a smart ponyand trap. Grinning at me with restrained delight, he instructed myluggage-trundling porter to put it on the village omnibus and I gave theman the last sixpence of my journey-money. As we rattled up the road theunpunctual train with a series of snorts and a streamer of smokesauntered sedately away into the calm agricultural valley of itsvocation.

How jolly to be home for the holidays, I thought to myself. So farneither of us had said a word; but as soon as we were out of the villagestreet (it wasn't our own village) he gave the pony a playful flick ofthe whip and made the following remark: "I've got a place for you into-morrow's team." Subdued triumph was in his voice and his face.

"What, for the Flower Show Match!" I exclaimed, scarcely able to believemy ears. He nodded.

Now the Flower Show Match was the match of the year, and to play in itfor the first time in my life was an outstanding event: words wereinadequate. We mutually decided not to gush about it.

"Of course, you're playing too?" I inquired. He nodded again. Dixon wasone of the mainstays of the village team--a dashing left-hand bat and asteady right-arm bowler. I drew a deep breath of our local air. I wasindeed home for the holidays! Expert discussion of to-morrow's prospectsoccupied the remaining mile and a half to the house.

"Miss Sherston won't half be pleased to see you," he said as we turnedbriskly in at the white gate. "She misses you no end, sir."

Aunt Evelyn had heard us coming up the drive, and she hurried across thelawn in her white dress. Her exuberant welcome ended with--"But you'relooking rather thin in the face, dear.... Don't you think MasterGeorge is looking rather thin, Dixon?... We must feed him up wellbefore he goes back." Dixon smiled and led the pony and cart round tothe stable-yard.

"And now, dear, whatever do you think has happened? I've been asked tohelp judge the vegetables at the Flower Show to-morrow. Really, I feelquite nervous! I've never judged anything except the sweet peas before.Of course, I'm doing them as well." With great restraint I said that Iwas sure the vegetables would be very interesting and difficult.

"I'm playing in the match," I added, with casual intensity. Aunt Evelynwas overjoyed at the news, and she pretended to be astonished. No doubtshe had known about it all the time. The roast chicken at dinner tasteddelicious and my bed felt ever so much more comfortable than the one atschool.

* * * * * * *

My window was wide open when I went to bed, and I had left the curtainshalf-drawn. I woke out of my deep and dreamless sleep to a gradualrecognition that I was at home and not in the cubicled dormitory atBallboro'. Drowsily grateful for this, I lay and listened. A cock wascrowing from a neighbouring farm; his shrill challenge was faintlyechoed by another cock a long way off.

I loved the early morning; it was luxurious to lie there, half-awake,and half-aware that there was a pleasantly eventful day in front ofme.... Presently I would get up and lean on the window-ledge to seewhat was happening in the world outside.... There was a starling'snest under the window where the jasmine grew thickest, and all of asudden I heard one of the birds dart away with a soft flurry of wings.Hearing it go, I imagined how it would fly boldly across the garden:soon I was up and staring at the tree-tops which loomed motionlessagainst a flushed and brightening sky. Slipping into some clothes Iopened my door very quietly and tip-toed along the passage and down thestairs. There was no sound except the first chirping of the sparrows inthe ivy. I felt as if I had changed since the Easter holidays. Thedrawing-room door creaked as I went softly in and crept across thebeeswaxed parquet floor. Last night's half-consumed candles and thecat's half-empty bowl of milk under the gate-legged table seemed tobelong neither here nor there, and my own silent face looked queerly atme out of the mirror. And there was the familiar photograph of 'Love andDeath,' by Watts, with its secret meaning which I could never quiteformulate in a thought, though it often touched me with a vague emotionof pathos. When I unlocked the door into the garden the early morningair met me with its cold purity; on the stone step were the bowls ofroses and delphiniums and sweet peas which Aunt Evelyn had carried outthere before she went to bed; the scarlet disc of the sun had climbed aninch above the hills. Thrushes and blackbirds hopped and pecked busilyon the dew-soaked lawn, and a pigeon was cooing monotonously from thebelt of woodland which sloped from the garden toward the Weald. Downthere in the belt of rivermist a goods train whistled as it puffedsteadily away from the station with a distinctly heard clanking ofbuffers. How little I knew of the enormous world beyond that valley andthose low green hills.

* * * * * * *

From over the fields and orchards Butley Church struck five in mellowtones. Then the clock indoors whizzed and confirmed it with a lessresonant tongue. The Flower Show Match was hours away yet--more than sixhours in fact. Suppose I'd better go back to bed again, I thought, orI'll be feeling tired out before the match begins. Soon the maids wouldbe stirring overhead, padding about the floor and talking in muffledvoices. Meanwhile I stole down to the pantry to cut myself a piece ofcake. What a stuffy, smelling place it was, with the taps dripping intothe sink and a bluebottle fly buzzing sleepily on the ceiling. Iinspected the village grocer's calendar which was hanging from a nail.On it there was a picture of 'The Relief of Ladysmith'... Old Krugerand the Boers. I never could make up my mind what it was all about, thatBoer War, and it seemed such a long way off.... Yawning and munchingI went creaking up to my room. It was broad daylight out of doors, but Iwas soon asleep again.

[II]

After breakfast there was no time to be wasted. First of all I had torummage about for the tin of 'Blanco,' which was nowhere to be found.Probably the parlour-maid had bagged it; why on earth couldn't theyleave things alone? I knew exactly where I'd left the tin at the end oflast holidays--on the shelf in the schoolroom, standing on an old caseof beetles (of which, for a short time, I had been a collector). Andnow, unless I could find the tin quickly, there'd never be time for meto Blanco my pads, for they took ever so long to dry in the sun, even ona blazing hot day like this one....

"Really, it's a bit thick, Aunt Evelyn; someone's taken my tin of'Blanco,'" I grumbled. But she was already rather fussed, and was atthat moment preoccupied in a serious discussion with Mabb, the gardener,about the transportation of the crockery which she was lending for theCricket Tea.

In a hasty parenthesis she confessed that she had given the tin to Dixononly a week or two ago, so I transferred myself and my grimy pads to theharness-room, where I discovered Dixon putting the finishing touches tohis white cricket-boots; he had already cleaned mine, and he apologizedfor not having done my pads, as he had been unable to find them. While Ibusied myself with dabbing and smearing the pads we had a nice chatabout county cricket; he also told me how he had taken a 'highlycommended' at the Crystal Palace Dog Show with one of the smooth-hairedcollies which he had recently begun breeding. There had been a lull inhis horse-buying activities after I went to school; since then I hadgiven up my riding, as my aunt could not afford to keep a cob speciallyfor me to ride in the holidays. So Dixon had consoled himself with hiscollies and village cricket: and the saddles were only used when he wasexercising the sedate horse which now shared the carriage work with thesmart little pony 'Rocket.'

Leaving my pads to dry in the sun, I sauntered contentedly back to thehouse to have a squint at the morning paper, which never arrived untilafter breakfast. I had a private reason for wanting to look at theMorning Post. I was a firm believer in predestination, and I used toimprovise superstitions of my own in connection with the cricket matchesI played in. Aunt Evelyn was rustling the newspaper in the drawing-room,where she was having a short spell of inactivity before setting forth tojudge the vegetables and sweet peas. Evidently she was reading aboutpolitics (she was a staunch Tory).

"I can't understand what that miserable Campbell-Bannerman is up to; butthank heaven the Radicals will never get in again," she exclaimed,handing me the sheet with the cricket news on it.

Carrying this into the garden I set about consulting the omens for mysuccess in the match. I searched assiduously through the first-classscores, picking out the amateurs whose names, like my own, began with S,and whose initial was G. There were only two that day: the result wasmost unsatisfactory. G. Shaw run out, 1: G. Smith, c. Lilley, b.Field, 0. According to that I should only score half a run. So I calledin professional assistance, and was rewarded with Shrewsbury, not out,127. This left me in a very awkward position. The average now worked outat 64. The highest score I had ever made was 51, and that was only in apractice game at Ballboro'. Besides, 51 from 64 left 13, an unluckynumber. It was absurd even to dally with the idea of my makingsixty-four in the Butley Flower Show Match. Anything between twenty andthirty would have been encouraging. But Aunt Evelyn's voice from thedrawing-room window informed me that she would be starting in less thanten minutes, so I ran upstairs to change into my flannels. And anyhow,the weather couldn't have been better.... While we were walkingacross the fields Aunt Evelyn paused on the top of a stile to remarkthat she felt sure Mr. Balfour would be a splendid Prime Minister. But Iwas meditating about Shrewsbury's innings. How I wished I could bat likehim, if only for one day!

* * * * * * *

The village of Butley contained, as one of its chief characters, aportly and prosperous saddler named William Dodd. It was Dodd who nowgreeted us at the field-gate and ushered Aunt Evelyn into the large,tropical-temperatured tent where the judges had already begun theirexpert scrutiny of the competing vegetables.

In the minds of most of the inhabitants of Butley William Dodd was animmemorial institution, and no village affairs could properly betransacted without his sanction and assistance. As a churchwarden onSundays his impressive demeanour led us to suppose that, if he was notyet on hat-raising terms with the Almighty, he at any moment expected tobe. During a Parliamentary Election he was equally indispensable, as hesupervised the balloting in the village schoolroom; and the sanguinesolemnity with which he welcomed the Conservative candidate left nodoubt at all as to his own political opinions. He was a man muchrespected by the local gentry, and was on free and easy terms with thefarmers of the neighbourhood. In fact, he was a sort of unofficial mayorof the village, and would have worn his robes, had they existed, withdignity and decorum. Though nearer fifty than forty, he was still one ofthe most vigorous run-getters in the Butley eleven, and his craftyunderarm bowling worked havoc with the tail-end of many an opposingteam. On Flower Show day he was in all his glory as captain of thecricket team and secretary and treasurer of the Horticultural Society,and his manner of receiving my aunt and myself was an epitome of hisurbane and appreciative attitude toward the universe with which theparish of Butley was discreetly associated. Waggish persons in thevillage had given him the nickname 'Did-I-say-Myself.' Anyone who wantedto discover the origin of this witticism could do so by stopping outsidethe saddler's shop on a summer morning for a few minutes of gentlegossip. Laying aside whatever implement of his craft he happened to beusing, he would get up and come to the door in his protuberant apron,and when interrogated about 'the team for to-morrow,' "Let me see," hewould reply in a gravely complacent voice, "Let me see, there's Mr.Richard Puttridge; and Myself; my brother Alfred; Tom Dixon; Mr. JackBarchard; young Bob Ellis--and did I say Myself?"--and so on, countingthe names on his stubby fingers, and sometimes inserting "and I think Isaid Myself" again toward the end of the recital. But his sense of hisown importance was justified when he had a bat in his hand. No one couldgainsay that.

Having, so to speak, received the freedom of the Flower Show from thisworthy man, there was nothing more for me to do until the rest of theplayers had arrived. At present there wasn't a cricketer to be seen onthe small but well-kept ground, and it seemed unlikely that the matchwould start before noon. It was now a little after eleven and acloudless day. Sitting in the shadow of a chestnut tree I watched theexertions of a muscular man with a mallet. He was putting up a 'coconutshy' in the adjoining meadow, where a steam roundabout, someboat-swings, a shooting gallery, and other recreative facilities were inreadiness for the afternoon. On the opposite side of the cricket-fieldhad been erected a Tea Tent, which would contain such spectators as wereprevented, by their social status, from shying at coconuts or turningalmost upside-down in a boat-swing. The ground sloped from the Tea Tentto the side where I was sitting (twenty-five summers ago), so that thegenteel onlookers were enabled to feel themselves perceptibly above therest of the proceedings.

Behind the Tent was a thick thorn hedge; beyond the hedge ran the dustyhigh road to the village. In the late afternoon of a cricket match therewould be several dilatory vehicles drawn up on the other side of thehedge, and the drivers would watch the game in Olympian detachment.There would be the carrier's van, and the brewer's dray, and the baker'scart, and the doctor's gig, and sometimes even a wagon-load of hay. Noneof them ever seemed to be pressed for time, and once they were therethey were likely to stay till the end of the innings. Rooks would becawing in the vicarage elms, and Butley, with its huddle of red roofsand square church tower, was a contented-looking place.

In my retrospect the players are now beginning to appear in ones andtwos. Some skim easily across the greensward on bicycles; others arrivephilosophically on foot, pausing to inspect the wicket, which has anasty habit of causing fast bowling to 'bump' after a spell of dryweather.

Dixon and I were having a little practice up against the fence when AuntEvelyn emerged from the Flower Show Tent with a bevy of head-gardeners.She signalled to me, so I clambered over the palings and went up to her.She only wanted to tell me that she would be back again after lunch anddid so hope she wouldn't miss my innings.

"I'm feeling quite proud that Master George is playing in the match,"she exclaimed, turning to a short, clean-shaven, small-eyed man in asquare bowler hat and his dark Sunday suit, who was standing near her.And then, to me, she added, "I was just congratulating Mr. Bathwick onhis wonderful vegetables. We've given him the first prize, and hethoroughly deserves it. You never saw such tomatoes and cucumbers!I've been telling Mr. Bathwick that he's a positive example to usall!"...

Sam Bathwick, who had a very large mouth, grinned bashfully, though hisheavy, sallow face had an irrepressibly artful look about it. He farmeda little bit of land in an out-of-the-way corner of the parish, and wasreputed to have put by more money than he admitted to.

Climbing over the fence again I became aware of the arrival of theRotherden eleven in a two-horse brake. It was close on twelve o'clock,but they'd had a fourteen-mile drive and the road was up and down hillall the way. How enormous they looked as they sauntered across theground--several of them carrying cricket-bags. I should be lucky if Imade any runs at all against such men as they were!

* * * * * * *

Butley Church clock was tolling twelve while our opponents were bearingdown on us from the other side of the field, with William Dodd alreadyhalf-way across to meet them. But the Rotherden men appeared to be in nogreat hurry to begin the game as they stopped to have a look at thewicket. Meanwhile Butley bells chimed sedately to the close of themellow extra celebration which Providence allowed them every three hourswithout fail....

"I suppose they've got their best team?" I faltered to Dixon, whose keengaze was identifying the still-distant stalwarts.

"You bet they have!" he replied with a grim smile.

Two of the tallest men had detached themselves from the others and werenow pacing importantly down the pitch with Dodd between them. Dixonindicated this group. "They've got Crump and Bishop, anyhow," heremarked.... Crump and Bishop! The names had a profound significancefor me. For many years I had heard Dixon speak of them, and I had evenwatched them playing in a few Flower Show Matches. Heavily built men indark blue caps, with large drooping moustaches, one of them bowlingvindictively at each end and Butley wickets falling fast; or else one ofthem batting at each end and Butley bowling being scored off withmasterful severity.

But they had also produced a less localized effect on me. Rotherden wason the 'unlimited' side of our district; it was in a part of the countywhich I somehow associated with cherry-blossom and black-and-whitetimbered cottages. Also it had the charm of remoteness, and whenever Ithought of Crump and Bishop, I comprehensively visualized the wholefourteen miles of more or less unfamiliar landscape which lay betweenButley and Rotherden. For me the names meant certain lovely glimpses ofthe Weald, and the smell of mown hayfields, and the noise of a shallowriver flowing under a bridge. Yet Crump was an ordinary auctioneer whosold sheep and cattle on market days, and Bishop kept the 'Rose andCrown' at Rotherden.

[III]

Butley had lost the toss. As we went on to the field I tightened theblack and yellow scarf which I wore round my waist; the scarf provedthat I had won a place in my House Eleven at school, and it was my solecredential as a cricketer. But to-day was more exciting and importantthan any 'House Match,' and my sense of my own inferiority did notprevent me from observing every detail of the proceedings which I am nowable to visualize so clearly across the intervening years.

The umpires in their long white coats have placed the bails on thestumps, each at his own end, and they are still satisfying themselvesthat the stumps are in the requisite state of exact uprightness. TomSeamark, the Rotherden umpire, is a red-faced sporting publican whobulks as large as a lighthouse. As an umpire he has certain emphaticmannerisms. When appealed to he expresses a negative decision with asevere and stentorian 'Not Out': but when adjudicating that the batsmanis out, he silently shoots his right arm toward the sky--an impressiveand irrevocable gesture which effectively quells all adverse criticism.He is, of course, a tremendous judge of the game, and when not absorbedby his grave responsibilities he is one of the most jovial men you couldmeet with.

Bill Sutler, our umpire, is totally different. To begin with, he has awooden leg. Nobody knows how he lost his leg; he does not deny the localtradition that he was once a soldier, but even in his cups he has neverbeen heard to claim that he gave the limb for Queen and Country. It is,however, quite certain that he is now a cobbler (with a heavily waxedmoustache) and Butley has ceased to deny that he is a grossly partisanumpire. In direct contrast to Tom Seamark he invariably signifies 'notout' by a sour shake of the head: when the answer is an affirmative onehe bawls 'Hout' as if he'd been stung by a wasp. It is reputed that(after giving the enemy's last man out leg-before in a closely foughtfinish) he was once heard to add, in an exultant undertone--"and I'vewon my five bob." He has also been accused of making holes in the pitchwith his wooden leg in order to facilitate the efforts of the Butleybowlers.

The umpires are in their places. But it is in the sunshine of my ownclarified retrospection that they are wearing their white coats. While Iwas describing them I had forgotten that they have both of them beendead for many years. Nevertheless, their voices are distinctly audibleto me. "Same boundaries as usual, Bill?" shouts Seamark, as loudly as ifhe were talking to a deaf customer in his tap-room. "Same as usual,Muster Seamark; three all round and four over the fence. Draw atsix-thirty, and seven if there's anything in it," says Sutler. And so,with an intensified detachment, I look around me at the Butley players,who are now safely distributed in the positions which an omniscient Doddhas decreed for them.

I see myself, an awkward overgrown boy, fielding anxiously at mid-on.And there's Ned Noakes, the whiskered and one-eyed wicketkeeper, alertand active, though he's forty-five if he's a day. With his one eye (anda glass one) he sees more than most of us do, and his enthusiasm for thegame is apparent in every attitude. Alongside of him lounges big WillPicksett, a taciturn good-natured young yokel; though over-deliberate inhis movements, Will is a tower of strength in the team, and he sweepshalf-volleys to the boundary with his enormous brown arms as though hewere scything a hayfield. But there is no more time to describe thefielders, for Dodd has thrown a bright red ball to Frank Peckham, who isto begin the bowling from the top end. While Crump and Bishop are stillon their way to the wickets I cannot help wondering whether, to moderneyes, the Butley team would not seem just a little unorthodox. WilliamDodd, for example, comfortably dressed in a pale pink shirt and greytrousers; and Peter Baitup, the ground-man (whose face is framed in a'Newgate fringe,') wearing dingy white trousers with thin green stripes,and carrying his cap in his belt while he bowls his tempting left-handslows. But things were different in those days.

In the meantime Bill Crump has taken his guard and is waiting withwatchful ease to subjugate the first ball of the match, while Peckham, astalwart fierce-browed farmer, takes a final look round the field.Peckham is a fast bowler with an eccentric style. Like most fastbowlers, he starts about fifteen paces from the wicket, but instead ofrunning he walks the whole way to the crease, very much on hisheels, and breaking his aggressive stride with a couple of systematichops when about half-way to his destination. Now he is ready. Seamarkpronounces the word 'Play!' And off he goes, walking for all he isworth, gripping the ball ferociously, and eyeing the batsman as if heintends to murder him if he can't bowl him neck and crop. On theultimate stride his arm swings over, and a short-pitched ball pops upand whizzes alarmingly near Crump's magnificent moustache. Ned Noakesreceives it rapturously with an adroit snap of his gauntlets.Unperturbed, and with immense deliberation, Crump strolls up the pitchand prods with his bat the spot where he has made up his mind that theball hit the ground on its way toward his head. The ground-man scratcheshis nose apologetically. "Don't drop 'em too short, Frank," says Doddmildly, with an expostulatory shake of his bristly grey cranium. Thusthe match proceeds until, twenty-five years ago, it is lunch time, andRotherden has made seventy runs with three wickets down. And since bothCrump and Bishop have been got rid of, Butley thinks it hasn't donebadly.

* * * * * * *

The Luncheon Tent stood on that part of the field where the Flower Showended and the swings and roundabouts began. Although the meal was aninformal affair, there was shy solemnity in the faces of most of theplayers as they filtered out of the bright sunshine into the sultry,half-lit interior, where the perspiring landlord of the 'Chequers' andhis buxom wife were bustling about at the climax of their preparations.While the cricketers were shuffling themselves awkwardly into theirplaces, the brawny barman (who seemed to take catering less seriouslythan his employers) sharpened the carving-knife on a steel prong with arasping sound that set one's teeth on edge while predicting satisfactoryslices of lamb and beef, to say nothing of veal and ham pie and a nicebit of gammon of bacon.

As soon as all were seated Dodd created silence by rapping the table; hethen put on his churchwarden face and looked toward Parson Yalden, whowas in readiness to take his cue. He enunciated the grace in slightlyunparsonic tones, which implied that he was not only Rector ofRotherden, but also a full member of the M.C.C. and first cousin onceremoved to Lord Chatwynd. Parson Yalden's parishioners occasionallycomplained that he paid more attention to cricket and pheasant shootingthan was fit and proper. But as long as he could afford to keep ahard-working curate he rightly considered it his own affair if he choseto spend three days a week playing in club and country-house matches allover the county. His demeanour when keeping wicket for his own parishwas both jaunty and magisterial, and he was renowned for the stridentand obstreperous bellow to which he gave vent when he was trying tobluff a village umpire into giving a batsman out 'caught behind.' He wasalso known for his habit of genially engaging the batsman inconversation while the bowler was intent on getting him out, and I haveheard of at least one occasion when he tried this little trick on thewrong man. The pestered batsman rounded on the rather foxy-facedclergyman with, "I bin playing cricket nigh on thirty years, and parsonor no parson, I take the liberty of telling you to hold your blastedgab."

But I hurriedly dismissed this almost unthinkable anecdote when heturned his greenish eyes in my direction and hoped, in hearty andingratiating tones, that I was "going to show them a little crispBallboro' batting."

The brisk clatter of knives and forks is now well started, and thebarman is busy at his barrel. Conversation, however, is scanty, untilTom Seamark, who is always glad of a chance to favour the company with asentiment, clears his throat impressively, elevates his tankard, fixesJack Barchard with his gregarious regard, and remarks, "I should like tosay, sir, how very pleased and proud we all are to see you safe 'omeagain in our midst." Jack Barchard has recently returned from the BoerWar where he served with the Yeomanry. The 'sentiment' is echoed fromall parts of the table, and glasses are raised to him with a gruff "Good'ealth, sir," or "Right glad to see you back, Mr. Barchard." Thereturned warrior receives their congratulations with the utmostembarrassment. Taking a shy sip at my ginger-beer, I think howextraordinary it is to be sitting next to a man who has really been 'outin South Africa.' Barchard is a fair-haired young gentleman farmer. Whenthe parson suggests that "it must have been pretty tough work outthere," he replies that he is thundering glad to be back among his fruittrees again, and this, apparently, is about all he has to say about theBoer War.

But when the meal was drawing to an end and I had finished my helping ofcold cherry-tart, and the barman began to circulate with a woodenplatter for collecting the half-crowns, I became agonizingly aware thatI had come to the match without any money. I was getting into a panicwhile the plate came clinking along the table, but quiet Jack Barchardunconsciously saved the situation by putting down five shillings andsaying, "All right, old chap, I'll stump up for both." Mumbling, "Oh,that's jolly decent of you," I wished I could have followed him up ahill in a 'forlorn hope'... He told me, later on, that he never seteyes on a Boer the whole time he was in Africa.

* * * * * * *

The clock struck three, and the Reverend Yalden's leg-stump had justbeen knocked out of the ground by a vicious yorker from Frank Peckham."Hundred and seventeen. Five. Nought," shouted the Butley scorer,popping his head out of the little flat-roofed shanty which was known as'the pavilion.' The battered tin number-plates were rattled on to theirnails on the scoring-board by a zealous young hobbledehoy who hadundertaken the job for the day.

"Wodger say last man made?" he bawled, though the scorer was only afew feet away from him.

"Last man, Blob."

The parson was unbuckling his pads on a bench near by, and I was closeenough to observe the unevangelical expression on his face as he lookedup from under the brim of his panama hat with the M.C.C. ribbon roundit. Mr. Yalden was not a popular character on the Butley ground, and thehobbledehoy had made the most of a heaven-sent opportunity.

From an undersized platform in front of the Horticultural Tent theButley brass band now struck up 'The Soldiers of the Queen.' It's quitelike playing in a county match, I thought, as I scanned the spectators,who were lining the fence on two sides of the field. Several easilyrecognizable figures from among the local gentry were already saunteringtoward the Tea Tent, after a gossiping inspection of the Flower Show. Icould see slow-moving Major Carmine, the best dressed man in Butley,with his white spats and a carnation in his buttonhole; and theenthusiastic curate, known as 'Hard Luck' on account of his habit ofexclaiming, "Oh, hard luck!" when watching or taking part in games ofcricket, lawn tennis, or hockey. He was escorting the Miss Pattons, twoelderly sisters who always dressed alike. And there was Aunt Evelyn,with her red sunshade up, walking between rosy faced old CaptainHuxtable and his clucking, oddly dressed wife. It was quite a brilliantscene which the Butley Band was doing its utmost to sustain withexperimental and unconvincing tootles and drum-beatings.

Soon afterwards, however, the Soldiers of the Queen were overwhelmed bythe steam-organ which, after a warning hoot, began to accompany therevolving wooden horses of the gilded roundabout with a strident andblaring fanfaronade. For a minute or two the contest of cacophoniescontinued. But in spite of a tempestuous effort the band was completelyoutplayed by its automatic and unexhaustible adversary. The discordbecoming intolerable, it seemed possible that the batsmen would 'appealagainst the music' in the same way that they sometimes 'appeal againstthe light' when they consider it inadequate. But William Dodd was equalto the emergency; with an ample gesture he conveyed himself across theground and prohibited the activity of the steam-organ until the matchwas finished. The flitting steeds now revolved and undulated noiselesslybeneath their gilded canopy, while the Butley Band palavered peacefullyonward into the unclouded jollity of the afternoon.

* * * * * * *

The clock struck four. Rotherden were all out for 183 and Tom Dixon hadfinished the innings with a confident catch on the boundary off one ofDodd's artfully innocent lobs. No catches had come my way, so my part inthe game had been an unobtrusive one. When Dodd and Picksett went out toopen our innings it was a matter of general opinion in the Beer Tentthat the home team had a sporting chance to make the runs by seveno'clock, although there were some misgivings about the wicket and it wasanticipated that Crump and Bishop would make the ball fly about a bitwhen they got to work.

Having ascertained that I was last but one on the list in thescore-book, I made my way slowly round the field to have a look at theFlower Show. As I went along the boundary in front of the spectators whowere leaning their elbows on the fence I felt quite an important publiccharacter. And as I shouldn't have to go in for a long while yet, therewas no need to feel nervous. The batsmen, too, were shaping confidently,and there was a shout of "Good ole Bill! That's the way to keep 'em onthe carpet!" when Dodd brought off one of his celebrated square-cuts tothe hedge off Bishop's easy-actioned fast bowling. Picksett followedthis up with an audacious pull which sent a straight one from Crumpskimming first bounce into the Tea Tent, where it missed theshort-sighted doctor's new straw hat by half an inch and caused quite aflutter among the tea-sipping ladies.

"Twenty up," announced the scorer, and the attendant hobbledehoy nearlyfell over himself in his eagerness to get the numbers up on the board. Astupendous appeal for a catch at the wicket by the Reverend Yalden wascountered by Sutler with his surliest shake of the head, and thepeg-supported umpire was the most popular man on the field as he ferriedhimself to his square-leg location at the end of the over. Forty wentup; then Dodd was clean bowled by Crump.

"'Ow's that?" bawled a ribald Rotherden partisan from a cart in theroad, as the rotund batsman retreated; warm but majestic, heacknowledged the applause of the onlookers by a slight lifting of hisclose-fitting little cap. Everybody was delighted that he had done sowell, and it was agreed that he was (in the Beer Tent) "a regularchronic old sport" and (in the Tea Tent) "a wonderful man for his age."Modest Jack Barchard then made his appearance and received a Boer Warovation.

Leaving the game in this prosperous condition, I plunged into theodoriferous twilight of the Horticultural Tent. I had no intention ofstaying there long, but I felt that I owed it to Aunt Evelyn to have alook at the sweet peas and vegetables at any rate. In the warm muffledair the delicate aroma of the elegant sweet peas was getting much theworst of it in an encounter with the more aggressive smell of highlypolished onions. Except for a couple of bearded gardeners who wereconferring in professional undertones, I had the tent to myself. Once Iwas inside I felt glad to be loitering in there, alone and away from theoptical delirium of the cricket. The brass band had paused to takebreath: now and again the brittle thud of a batsman's stroke seemed tointensify the quiescence of the floralized interior.

As I sniffed my way round I paid little attention to the card-inscribednames of the competitors (though I observed that the Miss Pattons hadgot second prize for a tasteful table-decoration): I found many of theflowers tedious and unpleasing--more especially the bulbous and freckledvarieties with the unpronounceable names--the kind of flowers which myaunt always referred to as 'gardeners' greenhouseries.' On the whole thefruit and vegetables gave me most enjoyment. The black cherries lookeddelicious and some of the green gooseberries were as large as smallhen's eggs. The two gardeners were concentrating on Sam Bathwick's firstprize vegetables and as they seemed to grudge making way for me Icontented myself with a glimpse of an immense marrow and some verypretty pink potatoes. As I passed, one of the gardeners was sayingsomething about "copped 'im a fair treat this time," and Iabsent-mindedly wondered who had been copped. When I emerged the hometeam had lost two more wickets and the condition of the game was causinggrave anxiety. Reluctantly I drifted toward the Tea Tent for a period ofsocial victimization.

* * * * * * *

The Tea Tent was overcrowded and I found Aunt Evelyn sitting a littleway outside it in comparative seclusion. She was in earnestcommunication with Miss Clara Maskall, a remarkable old lady who hadbeen born in the year of the Battle of Waterloo and had been stone-deaffor more than sixty years.

My aunt was one of the few people in the neighbourhood who enjoyedmeeting Miss Maskall. For the old lady had a way of forgetting that therest of the world could hear better than she could, and her quaveringcomments on some of the local gentlefolk, made in their presence, wereoften too caustic to be easily forgotten. She was reputed to have beenkissed by King George the Fourth. She was wearing a bunched-up blacksilk dress, and her delicately withered face was framed in a blackpoke-bonnet, tied under the chin with a white lace scarf. With herpiercingly alert eyes and beaky nose she looked like some ancient andintelligent bird. Altogether she was an old person of great distinction,and I approached her with an awful timidity. She had old-fashioned ideasabout education, and she usually inquired of me, in creaking tones,whether I had recently been flogged by my schoolmaster.

But the menace of Roman Catholicism was her most substantial andengrossing theme; and up to the age of ninety she continued to paste onthe walls of her bedroom every article on the subject which she couldfind in The Times and the Morning Post. Aunt Evelyn told me that thewalls were almost entirely papered with printed matter, and that she hadmore than once found Miss Maskall sitting on the top step of a libraryladder reading some altitudinous article on this momentous question of'the Scarlet Woman.' To the day of her death she never so much astrifled with a pair of spectacles. But she was still very much alivewhen I saw her at the Flower Show Match. Sitting bolt upright in awicker-chair, she scrutinized me keenly and then favoured me with afriendly little nod without losing touch with what my aunt was engagedin telling her by 'finger-talk.'

"What is it the man has been doing, Evelyn?" she asked, her queer,uncontrolled voice quavering up to a bird-like shrillness. There wassomething rather frightening about her defective intonation.

"Write it down; write it down," she screeched, clawing a tablet andpencil out of her lap and consigning them to Aunt Evelyn, who hurriedlyscribbled two or three lines and returned the tablet for her to readaloud, "such a dreadful thing, the judges have found out that Bathwickhas been cheating with his prize vegetables." She passed it back with atremulous cackle.

"How did he do it?" More scribbling, and then she read out, "He boughtall the vegetables at Ashbridge. The judges suspected him, so they wentto his garden in a pony trap and found that he has no glass--not evena cucumber frame." Miss Maskall chuckled delightedly at this, and saidthat he ought to be given a special prize.

"I call it downright dishonest. Almost as bad as embezzlement," wroteAunt Evelyn who, as one of the judges, could scarcely be expected totreat the offence in a spirit of levity.

Miss Clara now insisted that she must herself inspect the fraudulentvegetables. Rising energetically from her chair, she grasped her ebonystick with an ivory knuckled hand, and shaped an uncompromising coursefor the Horticultural Tent with Aunt Evelyn and myself in tow. Thevillagers at the gate made way for her with alacrity, as though it haddawned on them that she was not only the most ancient, but by far themost interesting object to be seen at the Flower Show Match.

Miss Maskall had made the game seem rather remote. She cared nothing forcricket, and had only come there for an afternoon spree. But she wastaciturn during her tour of the Flower Show: when we tucked her into hershabby old victoria she leant back and closed her eyes. Years ago shemust have had a lovely face. While we watched her carriage turn thecorner I wondered what it felt like to be eighty-seven; but I did notconnect such antiquity with my own future. Long before I was born shehad seen gentlemen playing cricket in queer whiskers and tall hats.

Next moment I was safely back in the present, and craning my neck for aglimpse of the score-board as I hustled Aunt Evelyn along to the TeaTent. There had been a Tea Interval during our absence, so we hadn'tmissed so very much. Five wickets were done for ninety and the shadowsof the cricketers were growing longer in the warm glare which slanteddown the field. A sense of my own share in the game invaded me and itwas uncomfortable to imagine that I might soon be walking out into themiddle to be bowled at by Crump and Bishop, who now seemed gigantic andforbidding. And then impetuous Ned Noakes must needs call Frank Peckhamfor an impossibly short run, and his partner retreated with a wrathfulshake of his head. Everything now depended on Dixon who was always ascool in a crisis.

"Give 'em a bit of the long handle, Tom!" bawled someone from the BeerTent, while he marched serenely toward the wicket, pausing for aconfidential word with Noakes who was still looking a bit crestfallenafter the recent catastrophe. Dixon was a stylish left-hander and neverworried much about playing himself in. Bishop was well aware of this,and he at once arranged an extra man in the outfield for him. Sureenough, the second ball he received was lifted straight into long-off'shands. But the sun was in the fielder's eyes and he misjudged the flightof the catch. The Beer Tent exulted vociferously. Dixon then set aboutthe bowling and the score mounted merrily. He was energeticallysupported by Ned Noakes. But when their partnership had added overfifty, and they looked like knocking off the runs, Noakes was caught inthe slips off a bumping ball and the situation instantly became seriousagain.

Realizing that I was in next but one, I went off in a fluster to put mypads on, disregarding Aunt Evelyn's tremulous "I do so hope you'll dowell, dear." By the time I had arrived on the other side of the ground,Amos Hickmott, the wheelwright's son, had already caused acute anxiety.After surviving a tigerish appeal for 'leg-before,' he had as near as atoucher run Dixon out in a half-witted endeavour to escape from thebowling. My palsied fingers were still busy with straps and buckles whenwhat sounded to me like a deafening crash warned me that it was all overwith Hickmott. We still wanted seven runs to win when I wandered weaklyin the direction of the wicket. But it was the end of an over, and Dixonhad the bowling. When I arrived the Reverend Yalden was dawdling up thepitch in his usual duck-footed progress when crossing from one wicket tothe other.

"Well, young man, you've got to look lively this time," he observed withintimidating jocosity. But there seemed to be a twinkle of encouragementin Seamark's light blue eye as I established myself in his shadow.

Dixon played the first three balls carefully. The fourth he smote cleanout of the ground. The hit was worth six, but 'three all round and fourover' was an immemorial rule at Butley. Unfortunately, he tried torepeat the stroke, and the fifth ball shattered his stumps. In thosedays there were only five balls to an over.

Peter Baitup now rolled up with a wide grin on his fringed face, but itwas no grinning moment for me at the bottom end when Sutler gave me'middle-and-leg' and I confronted impending disaster from Crump with thesun in my eyes. The first ball (which I lost sight of) missed my wicketby 'a coat of varnish' and travelled swiftly to the boundary for twobyes, leaving Mr. Yalden with his huge gauntlets above his head in anattitude of aggrieved astonishment. The game was now a tie. Through someobscure psychological process my whole being now became clarified. Iremembered Shrewsbury's century and became as bold as brass. There wasthe enormous auctioneer with the ball in his hand. And there I, calmlyresolved to look lively and defeat his destructive aim. The ball hit mybat and trickled slowly up the pitch. "Come on!" I shouted, and Petercame gallantly on. Crump was so taken by surprise that we were safe homebefore he'd picked up the ball. And that was the end of the Flower ShowMatch.

Part Three
A Fresh Start

[I]

Except for the letters written to me by Mr. Pennett I have nodocumentary evidence concerning the young man who was existing under myname in the summer after I left Cambridge. The fact that I havepreserved them is a proof that I was aware of their significance,although it is now nearly twenty years since I last read them through.In these days they would be typewritten; but in those days they werefair-copied by a clerk, and the slanting calligraphy helps me torecapture my faded self as I was when I apprehensively extracted themfrom their envelopes. Even now they make rather uncomfortable reading,and I find myself wondering how their simple-minded recipient managed torepel such an onslaught of worldly wisdom.

But Tom Dixon was still about the place to pitchfork me into the villagecricket team; and it happened that it was on a showery June morning,when I was setting out for one of the Butley matches, that I receivedthe first really uncomfortable letter from Mr. Pennett. We were playingover at Rotherden, which meant an early start, as it was fourteen milesaway. So I slipped the letter into my pocket unopened and perused it atintervals later on in the day. My Aunt Evelyn, I may say, never made anyattempt to influence me in my choice of a career. Like me, she preferredto procrastinate, and her intuition probably warned her that my mind wasunlikely to habituate itself to the quibbling technicalities of thelegal profession. But whatever she thought she kept to herself. She wasstill addicted to saying that I was 'none too strong,' and this delicacyof constitution which she ascribed to me was in itself a more thanadequate argument against my over-taxing my health with tedioustext-books in the unwholesome air of a London office.

"George is a boy who ought not to be interfered with too much," shewould say. And I agreed with her opinion unreservedly.

Mr. Pennett, however, had conscientiously dictated to his clerk a coupleof pages of expostulation and advice with the unmistakable object ofinterfering with me as much as possible. But the letter remained in mypocket until after we had arrived at Rotherden.

The air was Elysian with early summer and the shadows of steep whiteclouds were chasing over the orchards and meadows; sunlight sparkled ongreen hedgerows that had been drenched by early morning showers. As Iwas carried past it all I was lazily aware through my dreaming andunobservant eyes that this was the sort of world I wanted. For it was myown countryside, and I loved it with an intimate feeling, though all itsassociations were crude and incoherent. I cannot think of it now withouta sense of heartache, as if it contained something which I have neverquite been able to discover.

Thus we jogged and jingled along in the rumbling two-horse brake withthe Butley team talking their parish talk, and every house and hamletanimating William Dodd to some local-flavored anecdote. Dodd was in aholiday humour, and there wasn't much that he didn't know about theliving-memoried local history which lay between Butley and Rotherden.The doings of the county cricket team were also discussed; Dodd hadwatched them at Dumbridge last week and had spoken to Blythe, who was,in his opinion, the best slow left-hand bowler in England. The road wentup and down hill, by orchards and hop gardens and parks crowded withancient oaks. Nearly all the way we were looking, on our left-hand side,across the hop-kiln-dotted Weald. And along the Weald went the railwayline from London to the coast, and this gave me a soberly romantic senseof distances and the outside world of unfamiliar and momentoushappenings. I knew very little about London, and I had never been acrossthe Channel, but as I watched a train hurrying between the levelorchards with its consequential streamer of smoke, I meditated on thecoast-line of France and all the unvisualized singularity of thatforeign land. And then Rotherden Church hove in sight with its squarebattlemented tower, and we turned into the stable-yard of the 'Rose andCrown,' where Bert Bishop, the landlord, was waiting to welcome us--astouter man than he used to be, but still as likely as not to hit up ahundred.

* * * * * * *

Butley batted first. I was in eighth. Mr. Pennett's letter was in mypocket. Sitting on a gate in a remote corner of the ground I opened theenvelope with a sinking heart. Mr. Pennett wrote as follows:

"My dear George, I have learned from your College Tutor, much to myregret, that you have gone down from Cambridge, at any rate for thisterm. I think that you have made a mistake in so doing and that thisarises from perhaps a lack of appreciation on your part of the value ofan University education. One of the objects of an University career isto equip the student for the battle of life, and as you grow older youwill find that people are estimated in the world by the results whichthey have obtained at the Varsity. It is a kind of stamp upon a man andis supposed to indicate the stuff of which he is made. With a degree youstart with so much capital to the good, but if on the other hand havingonce commenced an University career you abandon it, the fact willmilitate against you in almost everything you undertake hereafter.Although you are nearly twenty-two you cannot be expected yet to look atthings in precisely the same light as those who have had moreexperience, but knowing as I do the great importance of the whole matterI do most earnestly beg you to reconsider the decision at which you havearrived. G. Sherston, M.A., will rank higher than plain G. Sherston, andthe mere fact of your being able to attach the magic letters to yourname will show that whatever may be your capabilities you have at anyrate grit and perseverance. I hope, therefore, that you will see thatthe step you have taken is one of unwisdom and that before it is toolate you will carefully reconsider it. Forgive this homily, but I amsure that whether it is to your taste or not you will at leastacknowledge that it proceeds from a strong desire to be of use to youfrom--your sincere friend, Percival G. Pennett."

It amuses me now when I think of the well-meaning lawyer dictating thatletter in his Lincoln Inn office, and of myself with my gaze recoilingfrom the wiseacre phraseology to follow a rook which was travellingoverhead with querulous cawings. Everything the letter said was so true;and yet, I wondered, was it really possible for P.G.P. to tell me whatwas best for my future? His letter made one effect which would haveastonished him. Worried and put out of temper by it, I slouched to thewicket after lunch without caring a hoot whether I stayed there or not.The result was that, favoured by a fair amount of luck, I 'carted' thebowling all over the field; at the end of our innings I was not outforty-three. This was the highest score I had ever made for the village;and, although we lost the match by five wickets, I finished the day in aglow of self-satisfaction which was undamped by a tremendousthunderstorm which overtook us on our way home.

Mr. Pennett's procedure for bringing me to my senses about 'anUniversity degree' was an excellent example of preaching to the winds.Good advice seldom sinks into the wayward mind of a young man, and inthis case the carefully composed phrases meant nothing to me. The utmostI could do was to transmute his prudent precepts into some suchsentiment as this: "The silly old blighter is trying to make me stay upat Cambridge when I'm absolutely fed up with the whole concern." Notthat I made any serious attempt to 'carefully reconsider' my decision. Ihad not yet begun to train myself to think rationally about anything. Noone was ever less capable of putting two and two together than I was.And he made a strategic mistake when he adjured me to 'look ahead.'

I very much doubt whether anybody wants to look ahead unless he isanxious to escape from one condition into another more desirable one.Children hanker to be grown-up because they want liberty. But why shoulda young man who has inherited a net income of about six hundred a yearfind it easy or necessary to imagine himself as ten or twenty yearsolder? If I ever thought of myself as a man of thirty-five it was avisualization of dreary decrepitude. The word maturity had no meaningfor me. I did not anticipate that I should become different; I shouldonly become older. I cannot pretend that I aspired to growing wiser. Imerely lived. And in that condition I drifted from day to day.Ignorantly unqualified to regulate the human mechanism which I was incharge of, my self-protective instincts were continually beingcontradicted by my spontaneously capricious behaviour. When Mr. Pennettreferred me to what he called 'after-life,' he was unaware that for methe future was a matter of the four seasons of the year. There was nextautumn, and next winter, and after that next spring. But this summer wasthe only thing that I cared about. The phrase 'after-life' was alsovaguely confused with going to church and not wanting to be dead--aperplexity which can be omitted from a narrative in which I am doing mybest to confine myself to actual happenings. At the age of twenty-two Ibelieved myself to be unextinguishable.

[II]

It was a wet and windy afternoon toward the end of September. We were onour way home from a seaside place in Devonshire, where we had beenstaying for a change of air. Aunt Evelyn was going through a period ofbad health, and her headaches were probably much worse than sheadmitted. Anyhow, she had been content to do very little, and I causedher no anxiety, for I had 'taken up golf' and most of my time and energyhad evaporated on the links. The people I played with at Bidmouth wereequally engrossed by the game, and if they had any ideas about thingsother than golf they showed no inclination to share them with me. AuntEvelyn wasn't sorry to be going home again; there was plenty to be donein the garden, and how the cats had got on without her she couldn'timagine.

Of my own sensations about our return I have no recollection: I may havefelt vaguely dissatisfied, but I did not consciously allow myself tocriticize the purposeless existence I was leading. At Waterloo Stationwe changed from one train to another for the final stage of our'through' journey. On account of her feeling unwell Aunt Evelyn hadtaken first-class tickets, and this made me conscious that we had asocial position to keep up. Gratified by the obsequious attentions ofthe green-flagged guard, I couldn't help wishing that my aunt had tippedhim more than a shilling. As she remarked, he was such a verynice-mannered man, and I assumed that he was expecting half a crown.

At any rate, it was a relief to settle down in a corner of the dark bluecushioned compartment after my aunt's unnecessary fussification aboutthe luggage. Rain-drops trickled down the windows as we steamed out ofthe station, and I was glad to avert my gaze from the dingy anddilapidated tenements and warehouses which we were passing. Poverty wasa thing I hated to look in the face; it was like the thought of illnessand bad smells, and I resented the notion of all those squalid slumsspreading out into the uninfected green country. While I perused amagazine called Golf Illustrated I stole an occasional glance at thetwo very first-class looking passengers who occupied the other cornersof the compartment. One of them was a grey-haired lady with acrocodile-skin dressing-case and a fur cloak. She was reading a bookwith an air of refined hauteur. The other was a middle-aged man with aneatly trimmed grey beard and a glossy top-hat which he hadceremoniously arranged on the rack above him. He was glancing atBlackwood's Magazine, and he had a bunch of violets in the buttonholeof his opulent dark blue overcoat. From the tone of voice in which heinquired whether she would prefer the window down a little I inferredthat the lady was a stranger to him. Compared with theseinfluential-looking people, Aunt Evelyn in her countrified tweed coatand skirt and her dowdy little hat seemed only just presentable. I hadyet to make the significant discovery that the most distinguishedpersonages are sometimes the most untidy.

Fortunately for her peace of mind, my aunt was much too tired to worryabout the impression which her exterior might be creating on twocomplete strangers who were surveying her for the first and probably thelast time on earth. What she really cared about was a cup of hot tea.But we should be in the train another hour, and we couldn't possibly gethome before six o'clock. Aunt Evelyn, however, though she seldomtravelled, was not without resourcefulness in the matter of railwayjourneys, and what she didn't know about picnics wasn't worth knowing.Now among the numerous light articles which she had brought into thecarriage there was a certain plebeian-looking basket which containedevery facility for making tea. Most essential among the facilities was apatent spirit-lamp for boiling the water; and this lamp was apt tomisbehave itself and produce an unpleasing smell. Had we been alone Ishould have been willing enough to set it alight, and the whole businesswould have been quite companionable and cosy. But now, with thoseimpeccably dressed people in their corners, I felt nothing exceptdiscomfort and disapproval when my aunt became busy with her basket. Itotally dissociated myself from her preparations, while she muddledabout with the lamp, which for some time refused to function and thenflared up with sudden explosive ardour.

"I was quite afraid it was going to be tiresome," she remarked,screening it with the Pall Mall Gazette and looking across at me witha smile. But the expected response was absent. I glowered contemptuouslyat the apparatus which she had placed on the floor. She then beganmeasuring out the tea. In the meantime I was conscious that our fellowtravellers were exchanging scandalized glances, and their haughtinessintensified itself with every phase of the capricious conduct of thelamp.

"There now! It's gone out again!" exclaimed Aunt Evelyn, who had becomeslightly flustered, since she had observed that she was getting herselfinto bad odour with the other passengers.

By dint of striking several more matches and much twiddling of the wickshe got the conflagration well under way again, although she had somedifficulty in shielding it against a dangerous draught caused by thegentleman, who had let down his window with expostulating asperity.

As for me, I considered that Aunt Evelyn was making a regular exhibitionof herself, and when her persistence had been rewarded by a cloud ofsteam and she held out a cup of moderately hot China tea, I felt soannoyed that I could almost have chucked it out of the window. However,I expressed my feelings adequately by muttering, "No, I don't wantany," and putting my paper up as a barrier between myself and theobjectionable sight of Aunt Evelyn sipping her tea with mechanicalenjoyment. As there was a spare cup in the basket she politely said tothe lorgnette-raising lady, "May I offer you a cup of tea, madam?" Butthe amenity was declined with an air of social remoteness.

For the remainder of the journey I couldn't bring myself to say anotherword, and Aunt Evelyn endured my sulky silence--wearily apologetic. Bythe time we were home I knew quite clearly that my attitude toward thetea-making had been odious; and the more I realized it the moreimpossible it seemed for me to make amends by behaving gently to her. Itwas one of those outwardly trivial episodes which one does not forget.

[III]

It was now an accepted fact that I had quitted Cambridge University.During the autumn I was limply incorporating myself with Aunt Evelyn'slocalized existence. Nothing was being said on the subject of what I wasgoing to do, and I cannot remember that the problem was perplexing mythoughts, or that I felt any hankerings for more eventful departments ofhuman experience. I was content to take it easy until somethinghappened. But since I had no responsibilities and no near relativesexcept my aunt, whose connection with the world beyond her own 'round ofcalls' was confined to a few old friends who seldom wrote to her, thethings which could happen were humdrum and few.

"What are you doing to-day, George?" asks Aunt Evelyn, as she gets upfrom the breakfast table to go down to the kitchen to interview thecook.

"Oh, I shall probably bike over to Amblehurst after lunch for a round ofgolf," I reply.

Over at Amblehurst, about four miles away, there is a hazardlessnine-hole course round Squire Maundle's sheep-nibbled park. The parkfaces south-west, sloping to a friendly little river--the Neaze--whichat that point, so I have been told, though I never trouble to verifyit--divides the counties of Kent and Sussex. On the other side of theriver is the village. Squire Maundle's clanging stable clock shares withthe belfry of the village school the privilege of indicating theAmblehurst hours. My progress up and down the park from one undersizedgreen to another is accompanied by the temperate clamour of sheep-bells(and in springtime by the loud litanies of baa-ing lambs and anxiousewes). The windows of Squire Maundle's eighteenth-century mansionoverlook my zigzag saunterings with the air of a county family dowagerwho has not yet made up her mind to leave cards on those new people atthe Priory. As a rule, I have the links to myself, but once in a while'young' Squire Maundle (so-called because his eighty-seven-year-oldfather is still above ground) appears on the skyline in his deer-stalkerhat, with a surly black retriever at his heels, and we play an amicableround.

Without wishing to ridicule him, for he was always kind and courteous, Imay say that both his features and his tone of voice have something incommon with the sheep who lift their mild munching faces to regard himwhile he plays an approach shot in his cautious, angular, and automaticstyle. He is one of those shrewdly timorous men who are usually made abutt of by their more confident associates. Falstaff would have borrowedfifty pounds off him, though he has the reputation of being close withhis money. His vocabulary is as limited as his habit of mind, and hespeaks with an old-fashioned, word-clipping conciseness. His lips arepursed up as if in a perpetual whistle. The links--on which he knowsevery tussock and mole-hill intimately--are always "in awful goodcondition"; and "That's a hot 'un!" he exclaims when I make a longdrive, or "That's for Sussex!" (a reference to the remote possibilitythat my ball may have gone over the river). But the best instance I cangive of his characteristic mode of expressing himself is one whichoccurred when I once questioned him about a group of little grey stonesamong the laurel bushes outside his stable-yard. After whistling to hisretriever he replied, "House-dogs bury in the shrubbery: shooting-dogsbury in the park...."

Aunt Evelyn always enjoyed a game of croquet with him at a garden party.

But in my spontaneous memories of Amblehurst I am always playing bymyself. The sun is in my eyes as I drive off at the 'long hole' down tothe river, and I usually slice my ball into a clump of may trees. I am'trying to do a good score'--a purpose which seldom survives the firstnine holes--but only half my attention is concentrated on the game. I amwondering, perhaps, whether that parcel from the second-hand bookshop atReading will have arrived by the afternoon post; or I am vaguely musingabout my money affairs; or thinking what a relief it is to have escapedfrom the tyranny of my Tripos at Cambridge. Outside the park the villagechildren are making a shrill hub-bub as they come out of school. But thesun is reddening beyond the straight-rising smoke of the villagechimneys, and I must sling my clubs across my shoulder and mount mybicycle to pedal my way along the narrow autumn-smelling lanes. And whenI get home Aunt Evelyn will be there to pour out my tea and tell me allabout the Jumble Sale this afternoon; it was such a success, they mademore than six pounds for the Mission to Deep-Sea Fishermen.

* * * * * * *

The days were drawing in, though it was only the second week in October.

"There's a nice fire up in the schoolroom, Mr. George; and a parcel ofbooks come by the carrier's van," said Miriam, when she was taking awaythe tea things.

Miriam (and I might well have mentioned her before, since she hadalready been with Aunt Evelyn for nearly seven years) was a gaunt womanwho had looked more than middle-aged ever since I first saw her.Miriam's hair had perhaps begun by being golden, but it was now a fadedyellow remnant, drawn tightly back from her broad forehead and crownedby a skimpy lace cap. Her wide-set eyes had a strained and patientexpression, as though expecting to be rather sharply ordered to lug aheavy scuttle of coals up four flights of steep stairs. She wasunobtrusively humpbacked and round shouldered, which suggested that whennot carrying scuttles upstairs she had been burdened with heavy trays orhad been stooping over a scullery sink to wash and wipe a lifetime ofcrockery. Her voice, too, had a long-suffering note in it--mostnoticeable when she was doing her best to be gay. These outwardcharacteristics were the only legacy which she had received from herlate mistress who had for a long period of years exploited Miriam'sabnormal willingness for work. In such drudgery she had used up heryouth and maturity, thereby acquiring an habitual capacity for taking onher own shoulders a load of domestic duties which never seemed to havestruck her as being excessive. She was what is known as 'a treasure.'The difficulty, as Aunt Evelyn often said, was to persuade her to sitdown and shut her eyes for a few minutes and allow the other maids to dotheir fair share of the housework. But Aunt Evelyn's kindness onlystimulated Miriam to renewed activity, and her response to ordinarycivility and consideration reflected no credit at all on her formeremployer. In those days I used to look upon her as a bit of a joke, andI took for granted the innumerable little jobs she did for me. She wasno more than an odd-looking factotum, whose homely methods and mannersoccasionally incurred my disapproval, for I had a well-developed bump ofsnobbishness as regards flunkeydom and carriage-and-pair ostentation asa whole. Now and again, however, I was remotely affected by the smilewhich used to light up her sallow humble face when I said somethingwhich pleased her. It is the memory of that smile which has helped me todescribe her. For there was a loveliness of spirit in her which I didnot recognize until it was too late for her to know it.

* * * * * * *

On my way up to the schoolroom, which had formerly been known as 'theday-nursery,' I decided that the name needed further promotion. 'Study'was inappropriate and sounded elderly. 'Smoking-room' wouldn't doeither, because I hadn't begun smoking yet, although puffing my pipe bythe fireside on winter evenings was a comfortable idea. 'Library,' Ithought (pausing in the dark passage with a hand on the brass doorknob),was too big a jump from 'schoolroom.' Besides, there wasn't any library.'Library' meant glass-fronted bookcases with yellow busts of JuliusCaesar and Cicero on the top. Entering the fire-lit room, I pounced onthe bulky package which Miriam had deposited on the table. 'Book-room,'I thought, as I tugged impetuously at the thick string. And 'book-room'it rather tentatively became.

There was no doubt that I had a fondness for books--especially old ones.But my reading was desultory and unassimilative. Words made a muddledeffect on my mind while I was busy among them, and they seldom causedany afterthoughts. I esteemed my books mostly for their outsides. Iadmired old leather bindings, and my fancy was tickled by the thought offirelight flickering on dim gilt, autumn-coloured backs--rows and rowsof them, and myself in an arm-chair musing on the pleasant names ofAddison and Steele, Gibbon and Goldsmith. And what wonderful bargainswere to be discovered in the catalogues of second-hand booksellers atBirmingham! Only last week I had acquired (for seven and sixpence) Dr.Burnet's Rights of Princes in the Disposing of Ecclesiastical Benefices,1685. First Edition. Original sheep, scarce. And there wereTillotson's Sermons, ten imposing volumes in sage green morocco. I hadbought them along with a twelve-volume edition of Doctor Johnson's Works(in contemporary sprinkled calf), and had even read a few of the shorterLives of the Poets (such as Garth, Broome, Mallet, and Sprat). I hadalso made a short-winded effort to read Rasselas....

And now (disentangling the cord and rending the brown paper wrappings)Pope's Homer had actually arrived. Six folio volumes, first edition,and they had only cost fifteen bob plus the postage. When I wrote forthem (to a philanthropist named Cowler, at Reading) I made sure thatsomeone else would have snapped them up. But no; here they were; inquite good condition, too. And how splendid, to be able to read bothPope and Homer at once! Homer had been impossible to enjoy in the fifthform at Ballboro', but he would seem ever so much easier now. I resolvedto read exactly a hundred lines every day until I'd waded through thewhole six volumes. And when I'd marshalled them on the top shelf--forthey were too tall to fit into any other--between the quarto sets ofSmollett's History of England and Tickell's Addison, I solemnlyabstracted the first volume of the Iliad and made a start.

The wrath of Peleus' son and that dire spring
Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing....

[IV]

To those who are expecting to see me in the saddle again it may seemthat I have delayed over-long in acquiring my first hunter. But I takethis opportunity of reminding my invisible audience that there was noimperative reason why I should ever have bought a horse at all; in fact,candour compels me to confess that if I had been left to my own devicesI should probably have spent the forty-five guineas on something else.For though I was living so quietly and paying Aunt Evelyn nothing for mykeep, I never seemed to have much of a balance at the bank. And Mr.Pennett, who appeared to consider me utterly irresponsible in matters ofmoney, had so far refused to disgorge more than £450 a year out of myestimated income of £600. So, what with buying books and a new bicycle,and various other apparently indispensable odds and ends, I found myself'going in for economy' when early in January Dixon began his campaign torevive my interest in the stable.

During the winter I had been taking a walk every afternoon. I usuallywent five or six miles, but they soon became apathetic ones, and I wasconscious of having no genuine connection with the countryside. Otherpeople owned estates, or rented farms, or did something countrified; butI only walked along the roads or took furtive short cuts across thefields of persons who might easily have bawled at me if they had caughtsight of me. And I felt shy and 'out of it' among the localland-owners--most of whose conversation was about shooting. So I wentmooning, more and more moodily, about the looming landscape, with itscreaking-cowled hop-kilns and whirring flocks of starlings and hop-polespiled in pyramids like soldiers' tents. Often when I came home for fiveo'clock tea I felt a vague desire to be living somewhere else--in 1850,for instance, when everything must have been so comfortable andold-fashioned, like the Cathedral Close in Trollope's novels. Theweather was too bad for golf, and even 'young' Squire Maundle wasobliged to admit that the Amblehurst course was in far from first-ratecondition. And there never seemed to be any reason for going to London,although, of course, there were interesting things to see there: (AuntEvelyn was always intending to run up for the day and go to a matinee ofBeerbohm Tree's new Shakespearean production).

I seldom spoke to anyone while I was out for my walks, but now and againI would meet John Homeward, the carrier, on his way back from the countytown where he went three days a week. Homeward was a friendly man; Ialways 'passed the time of day' with him. He was a keen cricketer andone of Dixon's chief cronies. The weather and next year's cricket werethe staple topics of our conversation. Homeward had been making hisfoot-pace journeys with his hooded van and nodding horse ever since Icould remember, and he seemed an essential feature of the ten milesacross the Weald to Ashbridge (a somnolent town which I associated withthe smell of a brewery and the grim fact of people being hung in thegaol there). All the year round, whether there was snow on the ground orblossom on the fruit trees, the carrier's van crawled across the valleywith its cargo of utilities, but Homeward was always alone with hishorse, for he never took passengers. In my mind's eye he is invariablywalking beside his van, for he always got out at the steep hill whichwinds down to the Weald. His burly figure and kindly bearded face musthave gone up and down that hill about five thousand times before heretired to prosper with a small public-house. I used to wonder what hethought about while on the road, for he had the look of a man who wascogitant rather than vegetative. Dixon told me that he spent his wholetime weighing the pros and cons of the half-crown bets which he made onraces. In matters connected with the Turf he was a compendium of exactknowledge, and his profession allowed him ample leisure to make up hismind about likely outsiders and nicely handicapped horses at short odds.

Another feature of the local landscape was Joey, who worked on theroads, mostly at flint-breaking. I never knew his real name, though I'dknown him by sight ever since I could remember. He was a lizard-facedman and the skin of his throat hung loose and shrivelled. I had namedhim Joey--in my mind--after a tortoise which I had owned when I was achild. Sitting on a heap of stones on the main road, alone with thehumming telegraph poles and the clack of his hammer, he always salutedme as I passed, but I never conversed with him and he never seemed toget any older. He might have been any age between forty andseventy....

But I must hurry myself along a bit, for it is high time that I was onthe back of my new hunter.

* * * * * * *

On New Year's Day I was half-pedestrian and half-bicyclist, with no ideaof being anything else. Within a week I found myself a full-blownhorse-owner, and was watching Dixon exert himself with a hammer andchisel as he opened the neat wooden case which contained a new saddlefrom that old-established West End firm, Campion & Webble. Theresponsibility for these stimulating occurrences rested with Dixon.

One morning after breakfast Miriam announced that Dixon had something heparticularly wished to speak to me about and was waiting in theservants' hall. Wondering what on earth it would be, I asked her to sendhim up to the book-room. I was there before him; a minute or two laterthe sound of his deliberate tread was audible in the passage; he knockedportentously and entered respectfully, introducing a faint odour of thestables. He had an air of discreetly subdued excitement and there was aslight flush about the cheekbones of his keen face. Without delay heproduced a copy of Horse and Hound from his pocket, unfolded itcarefully, and handed it to me, merely saying, "I want you to have alook at that, sir." That, as indicated by his thumb, was thefollowing item in Tattersall's weekly sale list.

"The Property of Cosmo Gaffikin, Esq., Harkaway III. Chestnut gelding;aged; sixteen hands; a good hunter; an exceptionally brilliantperformer; well known with the Dumborough Hounds, with whom he has beenregularly hunted to date. Can be seen and ridden by appointment withStud Groom, Mistley House, Wellbrook."

I read the advertisement in a stupefied way, but Dixon allowed me notime for hesitation or demur.

"It struck me, sir, that you might do worse than go over and have a lookat him," he remarked, adding, "I saw him run in the Hunt Cup two yearsago; he's a very fine stamp of hunter."

"Did he win?" I asked.

"No, sir. But he ran well, and I think Mr. Gaffikin made too much use ofhim in the first mile or two." For lack of anything to say I reread theadvertisement.

"Well, sir, if you'll excuse my saying so, you don't get a chance likethat every day."

An hour later Dixon had got me into the dog-cart and was driving me overto Wellbrook--a distance of ten miles. It was a mild, grey morning, andas I felt that I had lost control over what was happening, there was noneed to feel nervous about the impending interview. In response to mytentative inquiries Dixon displayed a surprisingly intimate knowledge ofeverything connected with Harkaway and his present owner, and when Isuggested that the price expected would be too high for me, he went sofar as to say that he had very good reason to believe that he could bebought for fifty pounds.

When we arrived at Mistley House it soon became clear even to myunsuspicious mind that the stud groom had been expecting us. WhenHarkaway was led out of his stable my first impression was of anoticeably narrow animal with a white blaze on his well-bred andintelligent face. But I felt more impelled to admire than to criticize,and a few minutes later Mr. Gaffikin himself came clattering into thestable-yard on a jaunty black mare with a plaited mane. The stud groomexplained me as "Mr. Sherston, sir; come over from Butley to have a lookat Harkaway, sir." Mr. Gaffikin was about thirty-five and had a ratherpuffy face and a full-sized brown moustache. He was good-humoured andvoluble and slangy and easygoing, and very much the sportsman. He hadnothing but praise for Harkaway, and seemed to feel the keenest regretat parting with him.

"But the fact is," he explained confidentially, "the old horse isn'tquite up to my weight and I want to make room for a young 'chaser. Butyou're a stone lighter than I am, and he'd carry you like a bird--like abird, wouldn't you, old chap?"--and he pulled Harkaway's neat littleears affectionately. "Yes," he went on, "I don't mind telling you he'sthe boldest performer I've ever been on. Nailing good hunter. I've neverknown him turn his head. Absolute patent-safety; I can guarantee youthat much, Mr. Sherston."

Whereupon he urged me to jump on the old horse's back and see how Iliked the feel of him. (He used the adjective "old" as if in the case ofHarkaway age was an immensely valuable quality.) Conscious of thedisparity between my untidy grey flannel trousers and Mr. Gaffikin'smiraculously condensed white gaiters and perfectly cut brown breeches, Iclambered uncouthly into the saddle. As I jogged out of the yard I feltmyself unworthy of my illustrious conveyance. Conscious of the scrutinyof the experts whose eyes were upon me, I also felt that Mr. Gaffikinwas conferring a privilege on me in affording me this facility formaking up my mind about "the old horse." When I had been down to thegate and back again everyone agreed that Harkaway and myself wereadmirably suited to one another.

"I'm asking fifty for him--and he'd probably make a bit more than thatat Tatt's. But I'm awful keen to find the old chap a really good home,and I'd be glad to let you have him for forty-five," Mr. Gaffikinassured me, adding, "Forty-five guineas: it's very little for a horseof his class, and he's got many a hard season in him yet." I agreed thatthe price was extremely moderate. "Well, you must come in and have a bitof lunch, and then we can talk it over." But it was obvious that thetransaction was as good as concluded, and Dixon had already made up hismind to put a bit more flesh on the old horse before he was much older.

That evening I composed a mildly defiant letter to Mr. Pennett,explaining that I had found it necessary to buy a horse, and asking himto provide me with an extra fifty pounds.

* * * * * * *

The arrival of Harkaway was a red-letter day for our uneventfulhousehold. Dixon and I had agreed to say nothing about it to AuntEvelyn, so there was a genuine surprise when we were finishing our lunchtwo days later and Miriam almost fell through the dining-room door witha startled expression on her face and exclaimed, "Oh, sir, your horsehas come, and he don't half look a beauty!"

"Good gracious, George, you don't mean to tell me you've bought ahorse?" said Aunt Evelyn, fluttering up out of her chair and hasteningto the window.

Sure enough, there was Harkaway with Dixon on his back, and we all threewent outside to admire him. Aunt Evelyn accepted his advent withunqualified approval, and remarked that he had "such a benevolent eye."Dixon, of course, was beaming with satisfaction. Miriam hovered on thedoorstep in a state of agitated enthusiasm. And altogether it seemed asif I had accomplished something creditable. Self-satisfied andproprietary, I stroked the old horse's neck, and felt as though in him,at least, I had an ally against the arrogance of the world which sooften oppressed me with a sense of my inferiority. But the red-letterday was also a lawyer's letter day. My complacency was modified by Mr.Pennett's reply, which arrived in the evening. When I had carried itupstairs and digested it I had an uncomfortable feeling that theschoolroom was still the schoolroom in spite of its new and moreimpressive name. In fairness to the writer I must again quote his letterin toto, as he would have phrased it.

"Dear George, I confess I am disappointed with your letter. £450 a yearis a big sum and should be more than ample for all your requirements.I do not propose to comment on the fact that you have found it necessaryto buy a horse, although I am not surprised that you find that timehangs heavy on your hands. When I last saw you I told you that in myview the best thing you could do would be to qualify to be called to theBar, that you should go into a barrister's chambers and work theresteadily until you were called. The training is excellent, it gives youan insight into business matters, and enables you to acquire the powerof steady concentration. I have also intimated to you as strongly as Icould that you are wasting your time and energies in pursuing a courseof desultory reading. I consider it a shame that a young fellow withyour health and strength and more than average amount of brains shouldbe content to potter around and not take up some serious calling andoccupation. I venture to prophesy that this will one day be brought hometo you and perhaps too late. My view is, 'Don't ride the high horse.' Hewon't carry you across country and the chances are you will come acropper at your fences. Yours sincerely, Percival G. Pennett. P.S.--£50is a large sum to spend for the object you propose. I am thereforepaying into your account £35, which sum will be deducted from the nextinstalment of your income."

Dismissing the idea of working steadily in a barrister's chambers, whichwas too unpalatable to be dwelt on, however briefly, I wondered whetherthe truth of Mr. Pennett's prophecy would ever be 'brought home to me.'It was a nuisance about the money, though; but Harkaway had been broughthome to me, anyhow. So I consolidated my position by writing out acheque to Cosmo Gaffikin, Esq., there and then. After that I erected anadditional barrier against the lawyer's attack on my liberties bysettling down to a steady perusal of Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour, whichI had brought up from the drawing-room. And while I relished Mr.Sponge's desultory adventures I made up my mind to go out with theDumborough Hounds as soon as I felt myself qualified to appear in publicon my exceptionally brilliant performer.

* * * * * * *

If Mr. Pennett could have prevented me from purchasing Harkaway (or anyother quadruped) he would have done so. It was his mundane duty as myex-guardian and acting trustee. Nor can it be denied that Dixon'sloyalty to his profession required him to involve me as inextricably aspossible in all that concerned the equine race. Dixon had emergedvictorious. A raw youth who refuses to read for the Bar is persuaded bythe family groom to buy a horse. How tame it sounds! But there was a lotmore in it than that--a statement which can be applied to many outwardlytrivial events in life when one takes the trouble to investigate them.And while I am still at the outset of my career as a fox-hunting man, Imay as well explain Dixon's method of collaborating with me in myprogress toward proficiency. When I made my fresh start and began toride the gallant old chestnut about the wintry lanes I was inwardlyawake to the fact that I knew next to nothing about horses and huntingand was an indifferent rider. And Dixon knew it as well as I did. Buthis policy was to watch me learn to find my way about the fox-huntingworld, supplementing my ignorance from his own experience in anunobtrusive manner. He invariably allowed me to pretend that I knew muchmore than I really did. It was a delicately adjusted, mutualunderstanding. I seldom asked him a straight question or admitted anyignorance, and he taught me by referring to things as though I alreadyknew them. I can remember no instance when he failed in this tactfulbehavior and his silences were beyond praise.

Meanwhile I am still reading Mr. Sponge in the schoolroom. But it mustnot be supposed that I launched myself in the hunting-field withunpremeditative temerity. Far from it. It was all very well to bereading about how Mr. Sponge bought a new pair of top-boots in OxfordStreet sixty years ago. But the notion of my inexpert self acquiringsuch unfamiliar accoutrements seemed problematic and audacious. Mytrepidation blinded me to the obvious fact that bootmakers were willingand even eager, to do their best for me. Nevertheless, I enjoyeddressing up as a sportsman, and the box-cloth gaiters which I had boughtin Ashbridge were a source of considerable satisfaction when theyencased my calves, and Miriam's long-suffering face looked in at thebook-room door with "Your horse, sir"--for Dixon liked to bring thehorse round to the front door when I was going out for a ride.

I always went out alone, for the driving horse was a nonentity andseldom appeared without the dog-cart. Also, as I have already explained,I was making my equestrian experiment without active interference orsupervision. When I got home again Dixon would ask, "Did he go allright?" and I would hang about the loose-box while Harkaway was beingrubbed down. I always had a few things to tell Dixon about my two hours'exercise--how I'd been through the Hookham woods and had given him anice gallop, and how I'd jumped the hedge by Dunk's Windmill on the wayhome (it was a very small hedge, and I lost a stirrup and very nearlyfell off, but there was no need to mention that). And then we wouldagree that the old horse was looking grand and improving every day. Itwas also agreed that Mr. Gaffikin must have given him a pretty thicktime out hunting and that a spell of easy work would do him all the goodin the world.

Until the middle of February his reappearance with the hounds was notreferred to. But one afternoon (when I had modestly admitted that we hadjumped a small stile when taking the short cut between Clay Hill andMarl Place) Dixon interrupted his hissing to look up at me, and said inhis most non-committal tone, "I see they're meeting at Finchurst Greenon Tuesday." The significance of this remark was unmistakeable. The nextday I bicycled to Ashbridge and bought a pair of ready-made'butcher-boots.'

* * * * * * *

Of all the pairs of hunting-boots which I have ever owned, the Ashbridgepair remain vividly in my mind as a long way the worst. Judged by thecritical standard which I have since acquired, their appearance wasdespicable. This was equalled by the difficulty of struggling into them,and the discomfort they caused while I wore them. Any long-legged'thruster' will tell you that a smart pair of boots is bound to causetrouble for the first few days. It is the penalty of smartness. (And Ihave heard of a young man with a broken ankle who, though almostfainting with the pain of his boot being pulled off, was able to gaspout--"Don't cut it; they're the best pair Craxwell's ever made for me.")But the Ashbridge boots, when I started for Finchurst Green, hungspurless on each side of Harkaway, stiff, ill-shaped, and palpablyprovincial in origin. And for some reason known only to their anonymousmaker, they persistently refused to 'take a polish.' Their complexionwas lustreless and clammy, although Aunt Evelyn's odd man had given themall the energy of his elbow. But it wasn't until I had surreptitiouslycompared them with other boots that I realized their shortcomings (oneof the worst of which was their lack of length in the leg). A boot canlook just as silly as a human being.

However, I had other anxieties as I rode to the meet, for I was no lessshy and apprehensive than I had been on my way to the same place tenyears earlier. At the meet I knew no one except Mr. Gaffikin, who cameoscillating up to me, resplendent in his pink coat and wearing alow-crowned 'coachy' hat cocked jauntily over his right ear. Aftergreeting me with the utmost geniality and good-fellowship, he fell intoa portentous silence; bunching up his moustache under his fleshy nosewith an air of profound cogitation and knowingness, he cast his eye overHarkaway. When he had concluded this scrutiny he looked up andunforeseeably ejaculated, "Is that a Sowter?" This incomprehensiblequestion left me mute. He leant forward and lifted the flap of my saddlewhich enabled me to blurt out, "I got it from Campion and Webble."(Sowter, as I afterwards discovered, is a saddle-maker long establishedand highly esteemed.) Mr. Gaffikin then gratified me greatly by hisapproval of Harkaway's appearance. In fact, he'd "never seen the oldhorse looking fitter." During the day I found that the old horse wasacting as my passport into the Dumborough Hunt, and quite a number ofpeople eyed him with pleased recognition, and reiterated his lateowner's encomiums about his condition.

But as it was a poor day's sport and we were in the woods nearly all thetime, my abilities were not severely tested, and I returned homesatisfied with the first experiment. Harkaway was not a difficult horseto manage, but I did wish he would walk properly. He was a mostjogglesome animal to ride on the roads, especially when his head wastoward his stable.

* * * * * * *

Three nondescript days with the Dumborough were all the hunting I did onHarkaway during the remainder of that season. But the importance which Iattached to the proceedings made me feel quite an accredited fox-hunterby the time Dixon had blistered Harkaway's legs and roughed him off inreadiness for turning him out in the orchard for the summer. The backtendon of his near foreleg was causing a certain anxiety. February endedwith some sharp frosts, sharp enough to make hunting impossible; andthen there was a deluge of rain which caused the country to be almostunrideable. The floods were out along the Weald, and the pollard willowsby the river were up to their waists in water.

On one of my expeditions, after a stormy night, at the end of March, thehounds drew all day without finding a fox. This was my first experienceof a 'blank day.' But I wasn't as much upset about it as I ought to havebeen, for the sun was shining and the primrose bunches were brighteningin the woods. Not many people spoke to me, so I was able to enjoyhacking from one covert to another and acquiring an appetite for my teaat the 'Blue Anchor.' And after that it was pleasant to be riding homein the latening twilight; to hear the 'chink-chink' of thrushes againstthe looming leafless woods and the afterglow of sunset; and to know thatwinter was at an end. Perhaps the old horse felt it, too, for he hadsettled into the rhythm of an easy striding walk instead of hiscustomary joggle.

I can see the pair of us clearly enough; myself, with my brow-pinchingbowler hat tilted on to the back of my head, staring, with the ignorantface of a callow young man, at the dusky landscape and its glimmeringwet fields. And Harkaway with his three white socks caked with mud, his'goose-rump,' and his little ears cocked well forward. I can hear thecreak of the saddle and the clop and clink of hoofs as we cross thebridge over the brook by Dundell Farm; there is a light burning in thefarmhouse window, and the evening star glitters above a broken drift ofhalf-luminous cloud. "Only three miles more, old man," I say, slippingto the ground to walk alongside of him for a while.

It is with a sigh that I remember simple moments such as those, when Iunderstood so little of the deepening sadness of life, and only thestrangeness of the spring was knocking at my heart.

[V]

I was now eager to find out all I could about riding and hunting, and itwas with this object in view that I made up my mind to go to theRingwell Hunt Point-to-Point Races. I had already been to the DumboroughHunt Steeplechase on Easter Monday and had seen Mr. Gaffikin ride awhirlwind finish on his black mare. He was beaten by half a length, andI lost ten shillings. Even to my inexperienced eyes it seemed as if hewas far too busy with his arms and legs as he came up the straight. Heappeared to be trying to go much faster than his mount, and the generaleffect differed from what I had seen described in sporting novels, wherethe hero never moved in his saddle until a few strides from the post,when he hit his thoroughbred once and shot home a winner.

What with the crowds jostling in front of the bellowing bookmakers, theriders in their coloured jackets thrashing their horses over the fences,and the dress and demeanour of the sporting gentlefolk, there was aferocity in the atmosphere of Dumborough Races which made me unable toimagine myself taking an active part in such proceedings, although itwas obviously the thing to do, and to win such a race as the Hunt Cupwould be a triumph to which I could not even aspire.

So I went home feeling more warned than edified, and it was a relief tobe reading Tennyson in my room while the birds warbled outside in theclear April evening, and the voice of Aunt Evelyn called to one of hercats across the lawn. But I still wanted to go to the RingwellPoint-to-Points, for Dixon had said that it was 'a real old-fashionedaffair,' and from the little I had seen and heard of the Ringwellcountry I had got an idea that it was a jolly, Surtees-like sort ofHunt, and preferable to the Dumborough.

The Ringwell Hunt was on the other side of the Dumborough; its territorywas almost double as large, and it was a four-day-a-week country,whereas the Dumborough only went out on Tuesdays and Saturdays. Theraces were being held about three miles from Downfield, the county town,which was in the middle of the Ringwell country. So in order to getthere I had to bicycle nearly seven miles and then make the twenty-fivemile train journey from Dumborough to Downfield. It was a journey whichsubsequently became tediously familiar, but it felt almost adventurouson the fine mid-April day which I am describing.

In deference to the horsey events which I was intent on witnessing, Iwas wearing my box-cloth gaiters, and as I bicycled out of the unhuntedButley district I felt that I was indeed on my way to a region wherethings really happened. In fact, I might have been off to MeltonMowbray, so intense were my expectations. As the train puffed slowlyinto Sussex I eyed the densely wooded Dumborough country disparagingly.At the point where, so far as I could judge, there should have been anoticeable improvement, the landscape failed to adapt itself to myanticipations. The train had entered Ringwell territory, but there wasstill a great deal of woodland and little open country.

As we got nearer Downfield the country became more attractive-looking,and I estimated every fence we passed as if it had been put there for noother purpose than to be jumped by Harkaway. I had yet to become awareof the farmer's point of view. A large crowd of people riding oversomeone else's land and making holes in the hedges is likely to createall sorts of trouble for the Master of Hounds, but I had not thought ofit in that way. The country was there to be ridden over. That was all. Iknew that I ought to shut the gates behind me (and some of them were anawful nuisance to open, when Harkaway was excited), but it had notoccurred to me that a hole in a fence through which fifty horses haveblundered is much the same as an open gate, so far as the exodus of afarmer's cattle is concerned. However, this problem of trespassing bycourtesy has existed as long as fox-hunting, and it is not likely to besolved until both the red-coated fraternity and the red-furredcarnivorous mammal which they pursue have disappeared from England'sgreen and pleasant land. But I was occupied with my speculations aboutthe point-to-point course, and at Harcombe Mill, the last little stationbefore Downfield, I got out of the train, lonely but light-hearted.

The direction of the course was indicated by a few gigs and othervehicles on the road, and by a thin stream of pedestrians who werecrossing some upland fields by a footpath. When I came to the crest ofthe hill I caught sight of some tents on a tree-clustered knoll about amile away, and the course evidently made a big ring round this centralpoint. A red flag stuck on the top of an oak tree was the onlyindication of a racecourse, though here and there a hairy-looking hedgehad been trimmed for a space of a few yards.

An elderly labourer was sitting in a ditch eating his bread and cheeseand I asked him which way they went.

"Ay, it's a tricky old course, and no mistake," he remarked, "and theground be terrible heavy down along the brook, as some of 'em'll findafore they're much older."

Following his directions I made my way from one obstacle to another,inspecting each one carefully. Most of them looked alarming, and thoughthe brook was not quite so wide as I had expected, it had boggy banks.As there was still plenty of time before the first race I was able to goabout half-way round the course before I joined the throng of people andcarriages on the hillside.

The course, though I was not aware of it at the time, was one of theold-fashioned 'sporting' type, and these races had a strong similarityto the original point-to-point which was run over a 'natural' line ofcountry, where the riders were told to make their way to someconspicuous point and back again as best they could. The Harcombe coursewas 'natural' in so far as there were no flags stuck in the fences, afair proportion of which had been left in that state which the farmerhad allowed them to assume. This type of course has now been almostuniversally superseded by a much tamer arrangement where the ridersusually go twice round a few fields, jumping about a dozen carefullymade-up fences which can be galloped over like hurdles.

On the cramped Harcombe course there were nearly fifty obstacles to besurmounted, and most of them were more suited to a clever hunter than toan impetuous and 'sketchy' jumper. Consequently these races were slowerand more eventful than the scurrying performances which in mostprovincial hunts are still called point-to-point races. A course of theHarcombe type, though almost too interesting for many of the riders, hadgrave disadvantages for the spectators, who saw little except the startand the finish. But the meeting had a distinctive character of itsown--the genuinely countrified flavour of a gathering of local people.

When I arrived at the centre of operations the farmers and puppy-walkerswere emerging from the marquee where they had been entertained by theHunt, and their flushed, convivial faces contributed to the appropriateatmosphere of the day. They had drunk the Master's health and were onthe best of terms with the world in general. Had I been inside the tentas representative of the Southern Daily News, I should probably havereported the conclusion of his speech in something very like thefollowing paragraph:

"He was glad to say that they had had a highly successful season. Aplentiful supply of foxes had been forthcoming and they had accountedfor fifty-eight and a half brace. They had also killed three badgers. Hewould like to repeat what he had said at the commencement of his speech,namely, that it must never be forgotten that the best friend of thefox-hunter was the farmer. (Loud applause.) And he took the liberty ofsaying that no hunt was more fortunate in its farmers than the RingwellHunt. Their staunch support of the hunt was something for which he foundit impossible to express his appreciation in adequate terms. An almostequal debt of gratitude was due to the Puppy Walkers, without whoseinvaluable aid the hunstman's task would be impossible. Finally he askedthem to do everything in their power to eliminate the most dangerousenemy of the hunting man--he meant barbed wire. But he must not detainthem any longer from what promised to be a most interesting afternoon'ssport; and amidst general satisfaction he resumed his seat."

* * * * * * *

I bought a race-card and went in the direction of 'the Paddock,' whichwas a hurdled enclosure outside some farm buildings. Several peoplenodded to me in a friendly manner, which made me feel more confident,although it puzzled me, for I couldn't remember that I had seen any ofthem before. The first race was almost due to start, and the bookmakerswere creating a background of excitement with their crescendo shoutingsof "Even money the Field" and "Two to one bar one."

"I'll lay five to one Monkey Tricks; five to one Monkey Tricks,"announced a villainous-looking man under a vast red umbrella--his hoarseand strident voice taking advantage of a momentary lull in thelung-bursting efforts of the ornaments of his profession on either sideof him. "Don't forget the Old Firm!" he added.

Looking down from above the heads and shoulders of their indecisiveclients, the Old Firms appeared to be urging the public to witness somespectacle which was hidden by the boards on which their names weregaudily displayed. The public, however, seemed vaguely mistrustful andthe amount of business being done was not equivalent to the hullaballoowhich was inciting them to bet their money.

There was a press of people outside the paddock; a bell jangled, andalready the upper halves of two or three red- or black-coated riderscould be seen settling themselves in their saddles; soon there was acleavage in the crowd and the eight or ten competitors filed out; theirfaces, as they swayed past me, varied in expression, from lofty andelaborate unconcern to acute and unconcealed anxiety. But even the leastimpressive among the cavalcade had an Olympian significance for my gaze,and my heart beat faster in concurrence with their mettlesome emergency,as they disappeared through a gate in the wake of the starter, a burly,jovial-faced man on a stumpy grey cob.

"Having a ride to-day, sir?" asked a cadaverous blue-chinned individual,who might have been either a groom or a horse-dealer. Rather taken abackby this complimentary inquiry, I replied with a modest negation.

"I see your brother's riding Colonel Hesmon's old 'oss in the 'EavyWeights. He might run well in this deep going," he continued.

I did not disclaim the enigmatic relationship, and he lowered his voicesecretively. "I'm putting a bit on Captain Reynard's roan for this race!I've heard that he's very hot stuff." And with a cunning andconfidential nod he elbowed his way toward the line of bookmakers, whowere now doing a last brisk little turn of business before thedestination of the Light-Weight Cup was decided over "Three and a halfmiles of fair hunting country."

The card informed me that Lieut.-Col. C. M. F. Hesmon's Jerry was to beridden by Mr. S. Colwood. "It can't be Stephen Colwood, can it?" Ithought, visualizing a quiet, slender boy with very large hands andfeet, who had come to my House at Ballboro' about two years after I wentthere. Now I came to think of it his father had been a parson in Sussex,but this did not seem to make it any likelier that he should be ridingin a race.

At any rate, I wanted to see this Colwood, for whose brother I had beenmistaken, and after the next race I walked boldly into the paddock tosee the horses being saddled for the Heavy Weights. There were only fiveof them, and none of the five looked like going very fast, though allwere obviously capable of carrying fourteen stone on their backs. Butsince one of them had got to come in first, their appearance wascreating an amount of interest quite disproportionate to theircredentials as racehorses, and their grooms and owners were fussingaround them as if they were running in the Grand National.

"I've told the boy that if he wins I'll give him the horse," exclaimedan active little old gentleman with a straggling grey moustache and afawn-coloured covert coat with large pearl buttons; his hands were fullof flat lead weights, which he kept doling out to an elderly groom, whowas inserting them in the leather pouches of a cloth which was to gounder the saddle.

"Yes, the old fellow's looking well, isn't he?" he went on, droppinganother lump of lead into the groom's outstretched hand. "I don't thinkI've ever seen him look fitter than he does to-day." He gazedaffectionately at the horse, a dark bay with unclipped legs and a shortuntidily trimmed tail.

People kept on coming up and greeting the affable and excited owner withcordial civility and he made the same remarks to each of them in turn."Yes, I've told the boy that if he wins I'll give him the horse--areyou quite sure those girths are all right, Dumbrell?" (to the groom, whowas continuing his preparations with stoical deliberation), "and 'pon myword I'm not at all sure he won't win--the old fellow's fit to run forhis life--never saw him look better--and I know the boy'll ride himnicely--most promising boy--capital eye for a country already--one ofthe keenest young chaps I've ever known."

"Well, Colonel, and how's the old horse?" ejaculated an exuberant personin a staring check suit and a protuberant canary coloured waistcoat,extending an immense red hand toward the little man--who dropped thelead weights in a fluster with "Ah, my dear chap, how are you--how areyou--delighted to see you"--followed by a reiteration of his repertoireabout 'the boy' and 'the old horse.'

The fact that this was Lieut.-Col. C. M. F. Hesmon was conveyed to me bythe arrival of my former schoolfellow Stephen Colwood. "Ah, there youare, my boy--that's capital," said the Colonel, moderating his agitationin order to adopt the important demeanour of an owner giving his finaladmonitions to a gallant young gentleman-rider.

Stephen, who was wearing a pink silk cap and a long-skirted blackhunting-coat, silently received from the groom the saddle andweight-cloth and disappeared into the weighing tent, accompanied by theColonel, who was carrying a cargo of surplus lead. When they reappearedStephen looked even more pale and serious than before. At the best oftimes he had a somewhat meditative countenance, but his face usually hada touch of whimsicality about it, and this had been banished by thetremendous events in which he was at present involved.

The combined efforts of Colonel and groom were now solemnly adjustingthe saddle and weight-cloth (though it is possible that the assistanceof the Colonel might have been dispensed with). Meanwhile the old hunterwas standing as quiet as a carriage horse.

Stephen was holding the bridle, and in the picture which my memoryretains of him at that moment he is looking downward at the horse'slowered head with that sensitive and gentle expression which wascharacteristic of him. It was nearly three years since I had last seteyes on him, but I had known him fairly well at school. As I watched himnow I felt almost as nervous as if I were about to ride the Colonel'shorse myself. I assumed that it was the first race he had ever riddenin, and I knew that he was feeling that if anything went wrong it wouldbe entirely his own fault and that he would never be able to look theColonel in the face again if he were to make a fool of himself. And hehad probably been suffering from such apprehensions for several daysbeforehand. It was not surprising that he patted Jerry's philosophicprofile with a visibly shaking hand. Then he looked up, and encounteringmy sympathetic gaze his face lit up with recognition. It was a time whenhe badly needed some such distraction, and he at once made me feel thatI was an opportune intruder.

"Why, it's old Sherston!" he exclaimed. "Fancy you turning up likethis!" And he gave me a wry grin which privately conveyed his qualms.

He told me afterwards that there were two things which he wished at thatmoment: either that the race was all over, or that something wouldhappen to prevent it taking place at all. It is sometimes forgotten thatwithout such feelings heroism could not exist.

He then made me known to the Colonel, who greeted me with a mixture offormality and heartiness and insisted that I must come round to hisbrake and have a glass of port and a sandwich after the race.

It seemed as though my diffident arrival on the scene had somehowrelieved their anxieties, but a moment later the stentorian voice of thestarter was heard saying, "Now, gentlemen, I'm going down to the post,"and I stood back while Stephen was given a leg-up by the groom. Then hebent his head to hear the Colonel's final injunctions about "not makingtoo much of the running" and "letting him go his own pace at hisfences," ending with a heartfelt valediction. Stephen was then turnedadrift with all his troubles in front of him. No one could help him anymore.

Colonel Hesmon looked almost forlorn when the horse and his long-leggedrider had vanished through the crowd. He had the appearance of a man whohas been left behind. And as I see it now, in the light of my knowledgeof after-events, there was a premonition in his momentarily forsakenair. Elderly people used to look like that during the War, when they hadsaid good-bye to someone and the train had left them alone on thestation platform. But the Colonel at once regained his spryness: heturned to me to say what a pity it was that the course was such a badone for the spectators. Then he got out his field-glasses and lostconsciousness of everything but the race.

* * * * * * *

The horses appeared to be galloping very slowly when they came in sightfor the last time. I was standing up on the hill and couldn't see themdistinctly. They had undoubtedly taken a long time to get round thecourse. Three of them jumped the last fence in a bunch, and Jerry wasone of the three. For years afterwards that last fence was a recurrentsubject of conversation in the Colwood family, but there was always agood deal of uncertainty about what actually happened. Stephen admittedthat it was 'a bit of a mix-up.' Anyhow, one of them fell, another onepecked badly, and Jerry disengaged himself from the group to scuttle upthe short strip of meadow to win by a length.

The Colonel, of course, was the proudest man in Sussex, and I myselfcould scarcely believe that Stephen had really won. The only regrettableelement was provided by the dismal face of the man who was second. Thiswas a Mr. Green, a lean and lanky gentleman farmer in a swallowtailedscarlet coat--not a cheerful-looking man at the best of times. He madeno secret of the fact that, in his opinion, Stephen had crossed him atthe last fence, but as he never got beyond looking aggrieved about it noone really minded whether Mr. Green had been interfered with or not, andJerry's victory appeared to be an extremely popular one. The Colonel wasbombarded with cordialities from all and sundry, and kept on exclaiming,"I said I'd give the boy the horse if he won and I'm dashed glad to doit!"

Stephen, who now emerged after weighing in, wore an expression of dreamyenthusiasm and restricted himself to a repetition of one remark, whichwas, "By Gosh, the old horse jumped like a stag;" now and again hesupplemented this with an assertion that he'd never had such a ride inhis life. He gazed at the old horse as if he never wanted to look atanything else again, but the Colonel very soon piloted him away to theport and sandwiches. As they were going Stephen pulled me by the armwith, "Come on, you queer old cuss; you aren't looking half as bright asyou ought to be." As a matter of fact I was thinking what a stagnantlocality I lived in compared with this sporting Elysium where everythingseemed a heyday of happiness and good fortune.

When we had regaled ourselves with the Colonel's provisions, Stephen ledme off into the fields to watch the Farmers' Race, which was usually avery amusing show, he said. As we strolled along by ourselves I told himhow I'd been mistaken for one of his brothers, and I asked what hadhappened to his family that day. He told me that both his brothers wereabroad. Jack, the elder one, had gone to India with his regiment a monthago. The younger one was in the navy, and was with the MediterraneanFleet.

"They're both of them as keen as mustard on the chase. It'll be prettymouldy at the Rectory without them when hunting starts again," heremarked.

I asked why his father wasn't there to see him ride. His face clouded."The Guv'nor'll be as sick as muck at missing it. Poor old devil, he hadto take a ruddy funeral. Fancy choosing the day of the point-to-pointsto be buried on!"...

* * * * * * *

It was after eight o'clock when I got home and Aunt Evelyn was beginningto wonder what had happened to me. I had enjoyed my day far more than Icould possibly have anticipated, but my gentle and single-mindedrelative came in for nothing but my moody and reticent afterthoughts andI was rather ungracious to poor Miriam when she urged me to have asecond helping of asparagus. Her face expressed mild consternation.

"What, no more asparagus, sir? Why it's the first we've had this year!"she exclaimed.

But I scowled at the asparagus as if it had done me an injury. What wasasparagus to me when my head was full of the Colonel and his Cup, andthe exhilarating atmosphere of the Ringwell Hunt? Why on earth had AuntEvelyn chosen such a rotten hole as Butley to live in? Anyhow, Stephenhad asked me to go and stay at Hoadley Rectory for the Polesham Racesnext week, so there was that to look forward to. And Aunt Evelyn, whohad relapsed into a tactful silence (after trying me with the latestnews from her beehives), was probably fully aware that I was sufferingfrom the effects of an over-successful outing.

Part Four
A Day with the Potford

[I]

The summer was over and the green months were discarded like garmentsfor which I had no further use. Twiddling a pink second-class returnticket to London in my yellow-gloved fingers (old Miriam certainly hadwashed them jolly well) I stared through the carriage window at theearly October landscape and ruminated on the opening meet in November.My excursions to London were infrequent, but I had an important reasonfor this one. I was going to try on my new hunting clothes and my newhunting boots. I had also got a seat for Kreisler's concert in theafternoon, but classical violin music was at present crowded out of mymind by the more urgent business of the day.

I felt as though I had an awful lot to do before lunch. Which had Ibetter go to first, I wondered (jerking the window up as the trainscreeched into a tunnel), Craxwell or Kipward? To tell the truth I was abit nervous about both of them; for when I had made my inaugural visitsthe individuals who patrolled the interiors of those eminentestablishments had received me with such lofty condescension that I hadbegun by feeling an intruder. My clothes, I feared, had not quite thecut and style that was expected of them by firms which had the names ofreigning sovereigns on their books, and I was abashed by my ignorance ofthe specialized articles which I was ordering. Equilibrium of behaviourhad perhaps been more difficult at the bootmaker's; so I decided to goto Kipward's first.

Emerging from Charing Cross I felt my personality somehow diluted. AtBaldock Wood Station there had been no doubt that I was going up to townin my best dark blue suit, and London had been respectfully arranged atthe other end of the line. But in Trafalgar Square my gentlemanlyuniqueness had diminished to something almost nonentitive.

Had I been able to analyse my psychological condition I could havetraced this sensation to the fact that my only obvious connections withthe metropolis were as follows: Mr. Pennett in Lincoln's Inn Fields (hewas beginning to give me up as a bad job) and the few shops where I owedmoney for books and clothes. No one else in London was aware of myexistence. I felt half-inclined to go into the National Gallery, butthere wasn't enough time for that. I had been to the British Museum onceand the mere thought of it now made me feel bored and exhausted. Yet Ivaguely knew that I ought to go to such places, in the same way that Iknew I ought to read Paradise Lost and The Pilgrim's Progress. Butthere never seemed to be time for such edifications, and the Kreislerconcert was quite enough for one day.

So I asserted my independence by taking a hansom to the tailor's, whichwas some distance along Oxford Street. I wasn't very keen on taxi-cabs,though the streets were full of them now.

The lower half of Kipward & Son's shop window was fitted with a finewire screening, on which the crowns and vultures of several stillundethroned European Majesties were painted. In spite of this hauteurthe exterior now seemed quite companionable, and I felt less of a nobodyas I entered. A person who might well have been Mr. Kipward himselfadvanced to receive me; in his eyes there was the bland half-disdainfulinterrogation of a ducal butler; for the moment he still seemeduncertain as to my credentials. On the walls were some antlered headsand the whole place seemed to know much more about sport than I did. Hissuavely enunciated "what name?" made the butler resemblance moreapparent, but with his "Ah, yes, Mr. Sherston, of course; your coat andbreeches are quite ready for you to try, sir," and the way he wafted meup a spacious flight of stairs, he became an old-fashioned innkeeper whohad been in first-rate service, and there seemed nothing in the worldwith which he was not prepared to accommodate me. To have asked theprice of so much as a waistcoat would have been an indecency. But Icouldn't help wondering, as I was being ushered into one of the fittingcompartments, just how many guineas my black hunting-coat was going tocost.

A few minutes later I was sitting on a hard, shiny saddle and beingciphered all over with a lump of chalk. The sallow little man who fittedmy breeches remarked that the buff Bedford cord which I had selected was'a very popular one.' As he put the finishing touch with his chalk heasked me to stand up in the stirrups. Whereupon he gazed upon hishandiwork and found it good. "Yes, that's a beautiful seat," he remarkedserenely. I wondered whether he would say the same if he could see melanding over a post-and-rails on Harkaway. The artist responsible for mycoat was a taciturn and deferential Scotchman, stout, bald, and blond.He, too, seemed satisfied that the garment would do him credit. My soleregret was that I hadn't yet been asked to wear the Hunt button.Downstairs in the dignified and reposeful reception room the presidingpresence was warming himself in front of a bright fire. As he conductedme to the door I observed with secret awe some racing colours in a glasscase on the wall. In after years I recognized them as being LordRosebery's.

Craxwell & Co. was a less leisurely interior. As might have beenexpected, there was an all-pervading odour of leather, and one was madeto feel that only by a miracle could they finish up to time theinnumerable pairs of top-boots for which they had received orders. Theshop bristled and shone with spurs; and whips and crops of all varietieswere stacked and slung and suspended about the walls. Pace was indicatedeverywhere and no one but a hard-bitten thruster could have enteredwithout humility. A prejudiced mind might have imagined that allCraxwell's customers belong to some ultra-insolent, socially snobbish,and libertine breed of military Mohocks. But the percentage, I am sure,was quite a small one, and my boots, though awkward to get into atfirst, were close-fitting and high in the leg and altogether calculatedto make me feel that there were very few fences I would not cram myhorse at. In outward appearance, at least, I was now a very presentablefox-hunter.

Stephen Colwood had advised me to patronize those particular places, andit was no fault of his that I was still a comparative greenhorn. Anyhow,young Mr. Craxwell (who looked quite as much a gentleman as theself-satisfied sportsmen I saw in his shop) was kind enough to tell methat I had 'a very good leg for a boot.'

* * * * * * *

By the time I had put my bowler hat under my seat in the grand circle atQueen's Hall I was in a state of unsporting excitement about Kreisler.The name itself was suggestive of eminence, and I was aware that he wasa great violinist, though I did not know that he would afterwards becomethe most famous one in the world. I was also unconscious that I wasincapable of discriminating between a good violinist and a second-rateone. My capacity for admiration was automatic and unlimited, and hisphotograph on the programme made me feel that he must be a splendid man.I was influenced, too, by the audience, which showed its intensity ofexpectation by a subdued hub-bub of talk which suddenly ceasedaltogether and was swept away by the storm of clapping which greeted theappearance of Kreisler.

That he was an eminent violinist was obvious, even to me, before he hadplayed a single note of the Handel Sonata with which the concert began.There was something in the quiet and confident little swing of hisshoulders as he walked on to the platform; something about the way hebowed with his heels together; something about his erect and dignifiedattitude while the accompanist flattened the pages of the music on thepiano; this 'something' impressed me very much. Then with a compact andself-possessed nod he was ready, and his lofty gaze was again on theaudience.

During the serenely opening bars of the accompaniment both the bow andthe violin were hanging from his left hand, and the inevitable gesturewith which he raised the instrument to his chin seemed to sustain therhythm of my excitement which reached its climax as I heard the firstcalm and eloquent phrase. The evergreen loveliness of the sonataunfolded itself, and Kreisler was interpreting it with tenderness andmajesty. For him the concert was only one in that procession of recitalswhich carried him along on his triumphant career. But I knew then, as Ihad never known before, that such music was more satisfying than thehuntsman's horn. On my way home in the train my thoughts were equallydivided between the Kreisler concert and my new hunting things. Probablymy new boots got the best of it.

[II]

Sitting by the schoolroom fire after tea on the last Saturday inNovember, I cleaned my almost new pipe (for I had taken to smoking,though I hadn't enjoyed it much so far) with a white pigeon's featherfrom the lawn.

I had got home early after a rotten half-day with the Dumborough. I'dhad four days with them since the opening meet, and it was no usepretending that I'd enjoyed myself. Apart from the pleasure of wearingmy self-consciously new clothes I had returned home each day feelingdissatisfied. It wasn't so much that the Hunt seemed to spend most ofits time pottering round impenetrable woodlands as that the othersubscribers appeared to be unwilling to acknowledge my existence exceptby staring me into a state of acute awareness of my ignorance of whatwas being done and how to do it. There was also the problem of Harkaway,who demonstrated more clearly every time I took him out that his staminawas insufficient for a hard day's hunting. It was only his courage whichkept him going at all; in spite of Dixon's efforts in the stable the oldhorse was already, as he ruefully remarked, looking 'properlytucked-up,' and the long distances to the meets were an additionalhardship for him.

As I lit my pipe I felt that I ought to be blissfully reconstructing theday's sport. But there seemed to be no blissful details to reconstruct.The hounds had run fairly well for about half an hour, but very littleof it had been in the open. And I had been so busy hanging on to myexcitable horse that I had only a hazy recollection of what hadhappened, except that Bill Jaggett had damned my eyes for following himtoo closely over the only jumpable place in a fence. Bill Jaggett was,to my mind, one of the horrors of the Hunt. He was a hulking,coarse-featured, would-be thruster; newly rich, ill-conditioned, andfoul-mouthed. "Keep that bloody horse well out of my way," was aspecimen of his usual method of verbal intercourse in the hunting-field.What with the vulgarly horsey cut and colour of his clothes and thebumptious and bullying manners which matched them, he was no ornament tothe Dumborough Hunt; to me he was a positive incubus, for he typifiedeverything that had alarmed and repelled me in my brief experience offox-hunting. Except for the violent impression he made on my mind Ishould have said nothing about him; but even now I cannot remember hisbehaviour without astonishment. He was without exception the clumsiestand most mutton-fisted horseman I have ever observed. No horse ever wentwell for him, and when he wasn't bellowing at his groom he was cursingand cropping the frothing five-year-old which was carrying hisfifteen-stone carcass. (He usually rode young horses, since he flatteredhimself that he was 'making' them to sell at a profit; but as he wasshort-sighted he frequently fell on his head and gave me thesatisfaction of watching him emerge from a ditch, mud-stained andimprecating.) He took no interest in anything except horses and hunting,and it was difficult to believe that he had ever learnt to read orwrite.

He was one of a small contingent who fancied themselves as hard riders.Owing to the character of the country they always had to be looking forsomething to jump, whether the hounds were running or not, and they wereoften in trouble with Lord Dumborough for 'larking' over unnecessaryfences. In this they were conspicuous, for the other followers of theHunt were a pusillanimous lot of riders, and there was always a queue ofthem at the gaps, over which they bobbed and bounced like a flock ofsheep. Musing on my disappointing experiences, I decided that next weekI would go and have a day with the Potford Hounds who were no furtheroff than the Dumborough. They were said to be short of foxes, but Dixonhad heard that their new Master had been showing good sport.

* * * * * * *

Elaborate arrangements had to be made for my day with the Potford. Thedistance to the meet was nearly fourteen miles, and Dixon decided thatthe best plan was for him to ride Harkaway over the night before. Thisouting was very much to his taste, and it was easy to imagine himclattering importantly into the yard at the Bull Inn with Harkaway's rugrolled on the saddle in front of him, and doing everything that washumanly possible to make the old horse comfortable in the strangestable. It is equally certain that, over his glass of beer in theevening, he would leave no doubt in the minds of the gossips in thebar-parlour that his young gentleman was a very dashing and high-classsportsman. All this he would do with the sobriety and reticence of anold family servant; before going to bed he would take a last look atHarkaway to see whether he had finished up his feed.

Driving myself to the meet in the soft, cloudy morning, I enjoyedfeeling like Mr. Sponge on his way to look at a strange pack. The onlydifference was that Sponge was a bold and accomplished rider and I wasstill an experimental one.

But my appearance, I hoped, would do Dixon no discredit, and on the seatbeside me was my newest acquisition, a short leather hunting-crop with avery long lash to it. The length of the lash, though extremely correct,was an embarrassment. The crop had only arrived the previous day, and Ihad taken it out on the lawn and attempted to crack it. But I was unableto create the echoing reports which hunt-servants seemed to produce soeffortlessly, and my feeble snappings ended with a painful flick on myown neck. So I resolved to watch very carefully and see exactly how theydid it. Big swells like Bill Jaggett never lost an opportunity ofcracking their whips when they caught sight of a stray hound. I couldn'timagine myself daring to do that or shout 'Get-along-forrid' in suchtremendous tones; but it would be nice to feel that I could make thewelkin ring with my new crop if I wanted to. I had yet to learn that thequiet and unobtrusive rider is better liked by a huntsman and hisassistants than the noisy and officious one.

I wondered whether I should know any of the people out with the Potford,and wished I had made a better job of tying my white stock that morning.Tying a stock was very difficult, especially as I didn't know how to doit. Mr. Gaffikin's was wonderful, and I wished I knew him well enough toask him how the effect was produced.

I was keen to see what the new Master of the Potford was like. Dixon hadheard quite a lot about him. His name was Guy Warder, and he was amiddle-aged man who hunted the hounds himself and did everything ascheaply as possible. He bought the most awful old screws for next tonothing at Tattersalls, made his stablemen ride them all the way downfrom London to save the expense of a horse-box, and brought them outhunting next day. It seemed that the Hunt was already divided intofactions for and against him, and it was doubtful whether he would beallowed to hunt the country another season. It was said that he was abad rider and always held on to the pommel of his saddle when jumpinghis fences. It was also rumoured that he sometimes got very drunk.People complained that he was slow, and often drew the coverts on foot.But he was popular with the farmers, and had been killing an abnormalnumber of foxes.

There he was, anyhow, sitting low down in the saddle among his hounds ona patch of grass in front of the Bull Inn. He was a dumpy little manwith a surly red face, and he wore a coat that had once been scarlet andwas now plum-coloured. He was on a good-looking horse, but the whipswere mounted on under-bred and raw-boned animals which might well havebeen sent to the kennels for the hounds to eat. The hounds were dullcoated and hungry looking. Evidently Mr. Guy Warder cared nothing forsmartness.

Dixon saw me into the saddle with a quietly satisfied air and I rode outof the stable-yard. The first person I recognized was Bill Jaggett, whowas hoisting himself on to the back of a slim, skittish, andstartled-looking roan mare. He greeted me with a scowl and then remarkedwith a grunt, "You've brought your old skin over here, have you? Don'tgive him much rest, do you?" The sneer in his voice made me hate himmore than ever, but I was too diffident and confused to reply.

With him was his boon companion, Roger Pomfret, a ginger-haired,good-for-nothing nephew of Lord Dumborough who blundered about thecountry on a piebald cob and vied with Jaggett in coarseness of languageand general uncouthness. But Pomfret, who was impecunious and spent hisspare time in dubious transactions connected with the Turf, had a touchof bumpkin geniality about him, and was an amiable and polishedgentleman when closely compared with his unprepossessing associate, who,at that moment was adjuring him (with the usual epithets) not to knockthe guts out of that horse or he'd never lend him another (at the sametime jogging his own mare unmercifully in the mouth and kicking her withone of his long spurs). "Will you stand still, you--" but before thelast word was out of his mouth the huntsman had shaken up his houndswith a defiant little toot of the horn and was trotting down the road.

"The old rat-catcher doesn't allow much law, does he? It's only sixminutes past eleven now!" remarked Pomfret, consulting his ticker withan oafish grin.

I dropped behind them, and was at once joined by Mr. Gaffikin,effusively cheerful, elbows well out, and a bunch of violets in hisbuttonhole. His friendliness revived my spirits, and he seemed to regardJaggett and Pomfret as an excellent joke. "It's as good as a play whenthey start slanging one another," he said, eyeing their clumsy backs asthey tit-tupped along.

He then told me, in an undertone, to keep pretty wideawake to-day, ashe'd heard that old Warder'd got something up his sleeve. He winkedexpressively. "I hear they've had one or two very queer foxes lately,"he added. I wasn't sure what he meant, but I nodded sagaciously.

Nothing exciting happened, however, at the first covert. In accordancewith his usual habit, the huntsman got off his horse and plunged intothe undergrowth on foot.

"They say the old boy's got a better nose than any of his hounds,"someone remarked.

In spite of my anxiety to avoid him, I found myself standing closebehind Jaggett, who was bragging about a wonderful day he'd had 'up atMelton' the week before. But I was feeling more at my ease now, and Iwas expressing this by swinging the lash of my crop lightly to and fro.The result was appalling. Somehow the end of it arrived at the rump ofJaggett's roan mare; with nervous adroitness she tucked in her tail withmy lash under it. She then began kicking, and in my efforts to dislodgethe lash I found myself 'playing' Jaggett and his horse like a hugefish. The language which followed may be imagined, and I wasflabbergasted with confusion at my clumsiness. When I had extricated mythong and the uproar had subsided to a series of muttered imprecations,I retreated.

To my surprise Mr. Gaffikin came up and congratulated me admirably onthe way I had 'pulled Bill Jaggett's leg.' He said it was the neatestthing he'd ever seen and he wouldn't have missed it for worlds. Heslapped his leg in a paroxysm of amusement, and I modestly accepted theimplication that I had done it on purpose. Guy Warder then emerged fromhis investigations of the undergrowth and blew his hounds out of covert.

"Where are you going now, Master?" shouted a sharp-faced man with agreen collar on his cut-away coat.

"You'll find out when I get there," growled Warder, hunching hisshoulders and trotting briskly down the lane.

Mr. Gaffikin explained that the green-collared man was a notoriouslytardy and niggardly subscriber. Nevertheless, we were apparently makingan unexpected excursion, and people were audibly wondering what the oldbeggar was up to now. Anyhow, I gathered that we were heading for thebest bit of the vale country, though it had been expected that we woulddraw some big woods in the other direction. After a couple of miles heturned in at a gate and made for a small spinney. Word now came backfrom the first whip that 'an old dog-fox had been viewed there thismorning.' Halfway across the field to the spinney the Master pulled up,faced round, and exclaimed gruffly, "I'd be obliged if you'd keep closetogether on this side of the covert, gentlemen." He then cantered offwith his hounds and disappeared among the trees.

"Stick close to me," said Mr. Gaffikin in a low voice. "The old devil'sgot a drag laid, as sure as mutton!"

He was right. A minute afterward there was a shrill halloa; when we gotround to the far side of the spinney there was the huntsman going hellfor leather down the slope with his hounds running mute on one side ofhim. With my heart in my mouth I followed Mr. Gaffikin over one fenceafter another. Harkaway was a bold jumper and he took complete controlof me. I can remember very little of what happened, but I was toldafterwards that we went about four miles across the only good bit ofvale in the Potford country. The gallop ended with the huntsman blowinghis horn under a park wall while the hounds scrabbled and bayed ratherdubiously over a rabbit-hole. There were only eight or ten riders up atthe finish, and the credit of my being among them belonged to Harkaway.Jaggett, thank heaven, was nowhere to be seen.

Warder took off his cap and mopped his brow. Then he looked withgrudging good humour at the remnant of his field and their heavinghorses. "Now let the bastards say I don't go well enough!" he remarked,as he slipped his horn back in its case on his saddle.

[III]

My successful scramble across the Potford Vale obliterated all thedreariness and disappointment of my days with the Dumborough. My faithin fox-hunting had been reinforced in the nick of time, and I joggledhome feeling a hero. Highly strung old Harkaway seemed to share myelation. His constitution was equal to a fast hunt, but he needed to betaken home early in the afternoon. The long dragging days in theDumborough woodlands wore him out. Even now he had a dozen miles to goto his stable, but they seemed short ones to me for I was thinking allthe way how pleased Dixon would be. For the first time in my career asan independent sportsman I had a big story to tell him.

In the light of my mature experience I should say that I had very littleto tell Dixon, unless I had told him the truth. The truth (which Icouldn't have admitted even to my inmost self) was that my performancehad consisted not so much in riding to hounds as in acting as ahindrance to Harkaway's freedom of movement while he followed Mr.Gaffikin's mare over several miles of closely fenced country--almostpulling my arms out of their sockets in the process. Had I told thetruth I'd have said that during that gallop I was flustered,uncomfortable, and out of breath; that at every fence we jumped I wasall over the saddle; and that, for all I had known, there might havebeen no hounds at all, since they were always a couple of fields aheadof us, and we were, most of us, merely following the Master, who alreadyknew exactly which way they would go.

I lay stress on these facts because it is my firm belief that themajority of fox-hunting riders never enjoy a really 'quick thing' whileit is in progress. Their enjoyment therefore, mainly consists in talkingabout it afterwards and congratulating themselves on their rashness ortheir discretion, according to their temperaments. One man remembers howhe followed the first whip over an awkward stile, while another thinkshow cleverly he made use of a lucky lane or a line of gates. Neither ofthem was able to watch the hounds while they were running. And so it waswith me. Had I been alone I should have lost the hounds within threefields of the covert where they started.

But my complacency had been unperturbed by any such self-scrutinies whenI clattered into the stable-yard in the twilight, just as Dixon emergedfrom the barn with a sieve of oats and a stable-lantern. His quick eyeswere all over the horse before I was out of the saddle.

"Going a bit short in front, isn't he?" was his first remark.

I agreed that he was going a bit queer. Dixon had seen in a momentwhat I had failed to notice in twelve miles. My feeling of importancediminished. I followed the two of them into the loose-box. Dixon'slantern at once discovered an over-reach on the heel of one ofHarkaway's front feet. No reference was made to my having failed tonotice it; and as we said, it was a clean cut, which was much betterthan a bruise. When asked whether it had been a good day, I replied"Topping," but Dixon seemed in no hurry to hear about it, and he wentout to get the gruel. I stood silent while the old horse drank iteagerly--Dixon remarking with satisfaction that he'd "suck the bottomout of the bucket if he wasn't careful."

Unable to restrain myself any longer, I blurted out my news: "They ranslap across the vale for about twenty-five minutes; a five-mile pointwithout a check. It must have been seven or eight miles as they ran!"

Dixon, who was already busy brushing the dried mud off Harkaway's legs,straightened himself with a whistle. "Did you see it all right?"

"The whole way; there were only ten up at the finish."

"Did they kill him?"

"No, he got into a rabbit-hole just outside Cranfield Park. The Mastersaid it was no good trying to get him out as it was such a big place."Dixon looked puzzled.

"That's funny," he remarked. "They told me at the 'Bull' last night thathe's a great one for terriers and digging out foxes. A lot of thesubscribers complain about it. They say he's never happy unless he's gothis head down a rabbit-hole!"

With a knowing air I told him that Mr. Gaffikin had said it was a drag.

"By Jingo! If it was a drag they must have gone like blazes!" I assertedthat they did go like blazes.

"You must have jumped some big places."

There was a note of surprise in his voice which made me feel that I hadbeen doing more than was expected of me. Could it be possible, Iwondered, that Dixon was actually proud of his pupil? And, indeed, theremust have been a note of jubilation in his voice when, as he bent downto brush the mud off Harkaway's hocks, he asked; "Did Mr. Gaffikin seehim jumping?"

"Yes. I foll--I was close to him all the way."

Perhaps it was just as well that Harkaway, munching away at his feed,was unable to lift his long-suffering face and say what he thoughtabout my horsemanship! Looking back at that half-lit stable from thedetachment of to-day, I can almost believe that, after I had goneindoors to my boiled eggs, Dixon and the old horse had a confidentialchat, like the old friends that they were. Anyhow, the horse and hisgroom understood one another quite as well as the groom understood hismaster.

* * * * * * *

Aunt Evelyn did her best to come up to the scratch while I was talkingbig at the dinner-table. But the wonderful performances of Harkaway andmyself during our exciting half-hour in the Potford Vale were beyond herpowers of response, and her well-meant but inadequate interjectionscaused my narrative to lose a lot of its sporting significance. Anxietyfor my safety overshadowed her enthusiasm, and when I was telling herhow we jumped a brook (it was only a flooded ditch, really), she utteredan ill-timed warning against getting wet when I was hot, which nearlycaused my narrative to dry up altogether.

Faithful Miriam made things no better by exclaiming, as she handed me aplate with two banana fritters on it, "You'll break your neck, sir, ifyou go out with them hounds much oftener!"

What was the good of trying to make them understand about a hunt likethat, I thought, as I blundered up the dark stairs to the schoolroom todash off a highly coloured account of my day for Stephen Colwood. He, atany rate, was an audience after my own heart, and the only one I had,except Dixon, whose appreciation of my exploits was less fanciful andhigh-flown. Writing to Stephen I was at once away in a world ofmake-believe; and the letter, no doubt, was a good example of what heused to call my 'well-known sprightly insouciance.'

Poor Stephen was living in lodgings in London, and could only get homefor a hunt on Saturdays. A wealthy neighbour had promised Parson Colwoodan opening for his son if he could qualify as a chartered accountant,and this nauseating task occupied him five days a week. So myvisualization of Stephen, exiled in a foggy street in Pimlico, made itdoubly easy for me to scribble my lively account of a day which nowseemed so delightfully adventurous.

Stephen's reply was a telegram asking me to stay at the Rectory for aslong as I liked, and this was followed by a letter in which he announcedthat he'd got a month's holiday. "If your old nag's still lame I can getyou some top-hole hirelings from Downfield for thirty-five bob a day,and I've ordered the Guv'nor to offer up prayers next Sunday forbiddingthe Almighty to send any frost to Sussex."

Aunt Evelyn considered this almost blasphemous; but she thought my visitto Hoadley Rectory an excellent idea, for Stephen was quite one of herfavourites, and of the Rev. Colwood (whom she had met at a diocesangarden party) she had the highest possible opinion. "Such a fine face!And Mrs. Colwood seemed a real fellow creature--quite one of one's ownsort," she exclaimed, adding, "D'you mind holding his hind-legs, dear?"for she was preoccupied at the moment in combing the matted hair out ofone of her Persian cats.

Part Five
At the Rectory

[I]

Stopping at every station, a local train conveyed me sedately intoSussex. Local and sedate, likewise, were the workings of my brain, as Isat in an empty compartment with the Southern Daily News on my knees.I had bought that unpretentious paper in order to read about theRingwell Hounds, whose doings were regularly reported therein. And sureenough the previous day's sport was described in detail, and "Among thelarge field out" was the name, with many others, of "Mr. Colwood, junr."Although I had yet to become acquainted with the parishes through whichReynard had made his way, I read with serious attention how he had"crossed the Downfield and Boffham road, borne right-handed intoHooksworth Wood, turned sharply back, and worked his way over thecountry to Icklesfield," etc., etc., until "hounds ran into him after awoodland hunt of nearly three hours." The account ended with thefollowing word: "If ever hounds deserved blood they did this time, asthey had to work out nearly every yard of their fox's line."

Having read this through twice I allowed my thoughts to dally with thedelightful prospect of my being a participator in similar proceedingsnext day. Occasionally I glanced affectionately at the bulging kit-bagcontaining those masterpieces by Craxwell and Kipward which had cost memore than one anxious journey to London. Would Stephen approve of myboots, I wondered, staring out of the window at the reflectivemonochrome of flooded meadows and the brown gloom of woodlands in thelowering dusk of a heavily clouded December afternoon.

Whatever he might think of my boots, there was no doubt that he approvedof my arrival when the fussy little train stopped for the last time andI found him waiting for me on the platform. I allowed him to lug my bagout of the station, and soon he had got it stowed away in the oldyellow-wheeled buggy, had flicked his father's favourite hunter into atrot ("a nailing good jumper, but as slow as a hearse"), and was tellingme all about the clinking hunt they'd had the day before, and how he'denjoyed my account of the Potford gallop. "You've got a regular gift forwriting, you funny old cock! You might make a mint of money if you wrotefor Horse and Hound or The Field!" he exclaimed, and we agreed thatI couldn't write worse than the man in the Southern Daily, whose"Reynard then worked his way across the country" etc. afterwards becameone of our stock jokes.

In describing my friendship with Stephen I am faced by a difficultywhich usually arises when one attempts to reproduce the conversationaloddities of people who are on easy terms. We adopted and matured aspecialized jargon drawn almost exclusively from characters in thenovels of Surtees; since we knew these almost by heart, they provided uswith something like a dialect of our own, and in our care-free momentswe exchanged remarks in the mid-Victorian language of suchcharacter-parts as Mr. Romford, Major Yammerton, and Sir MosesMainchance, while Mr. Jorrocks was an all-pervading influence. In ourSurtees obsession we went so far that we almost identified ourselveswith certain characters on appropriate occasions. One favourite rôlewhich Stephen facetiously imposed on me was that of a young gentlemannamed Billy Pringle who, in the novel which he adorns, is reputed to bevery rich. My £600 a year was thus magnified to an imaginary £10,000,and he never wearied of referring to me as 'the richest commoner inEngland.' The stress was laid on my great wealth and we never troubledto remember that the Mr. Pringle of the novel was a dandified muff and'only half a gentleman.' I cannot remember that I ever succeeded infinding a consistent rôle for Stephen, but I took the Surtees game forgranted from the beginning, and our adaptation of the Ringwell Hunt tothe world created by that observant novelist was simplified by the factthat a large proportion of the Ringwell subscribers might have steppedstraight out of his pages. To their idiosyncrasies I shall return in duecourse: in the meantime I am still on my way to Hoadley Rectory, andStephen is pointing out such fox-hunting features of the landscape asare observable from the high road while we sway companionably along inthe old-fashioned vehicle....

"That's Basset Wood--one of our werry best Wednesday coverts," heremarked, indicating with the carriage-whip a dark belt of trees acouple of miles away under the level cloud-bars of a sallow sunset. Heeyed the dimly undulating pastures which intervened, riding over them inhis mind's eye as he had so often ridden over them in reality.

"We'll be there on Monday," he went on, his long, serious face lightingup as his gaze returned to the road before him. "Yes, we'll be drawingthere on Monday," he chuckled, "and if we can but find a straight-neckedold dog-fox, then I'll be the death of a fi'-pun'-note--dash my wig if Iwon't!"

I said that it looked quite a nice bit of country and asked whether theyoften ran this way. Stephen became less cheerful as he informed me thatthere was precious little reason for them to run this way.

"There's not a strand of wire till you get to the road," he exclaimed,"but over there"--(pointing to the left) "there's a double-distilledblighter who's wired up all his fences. And what's more, his keepershoots every fox who shows his nose in the coverts. And will you believeme when I tell you, George my lad, that the man who owns those covertsis the same ugly mugged old sweep who persuaded the Guv'nor to get metrained as a chartered accountant! And how much longer I'm going tostick it I don't know! Seven months I've been worriting my guts out inLondon, and all on the off-chance of getting a seat in the office ofthat sanctimonious old vulpicide."

I consoled him with a reminder that he'd spent most of August andSeptember shooting and fishing in Scotland. (His father rented a placein Skye every summer.) And during the remainder of the drive we debatedthe deeply desirable and not impossible eventuality of Stephen's escapefrom chartered accountancy. His one idea was to 'get into the Army bythe back door.' If only he could get into the Gunners he'd be happy. Hiselder brother Jack was in the Gunners, and was expecting to be movedfrom India to Ireland. And Ireland, apparently, was a fox-huntingElysium.

"I really must have a chat with Colonel Hesmon about it. By the way, thedear old boy's asked us both to lunch to-morrow."

This led to a rhapsody about that absolutely top-hole performer Jerry,who had been given him by the Colonel after he'd won the Heavy-WeightRace. My Harkaway, on the other hand, was more a subject for solicitude,and I reluctantly confessed that he didn't seem up to my weight. It wasa thousand pities, said Stephen, that I couldn't have bought thatsix-year-old of young Lewison's. "Given him for his twenty-firstbirthday by his uncle, who'd forked out £170 for him. But young Lewisoncouldn't ride a hair of the horse, though he was a nailing fine 'lepper'and a rare good sort to look at. They sent him up to Tatts last week andhe went for £90, according to the paper. Gosh, what a bit of luck forthe cove who got him so cheap!"

My appetite for horseflesh was stimulated by this anecdote, but Iwondered what Mr. Pennett would say if I wrote and told him that I'dbought another ninety pounds' worth! For Mr. Pennett still refused toallow me more than £450 of my £600. The balance, he said, must be'invested for a rainy day.'

* * * * * * *

Stephen's visionary contemplations of 'being stationed at the Curraghand riding at Punchestown Races' were interrupted by our arrival at theRectory. I had stayed there more than once in the summer, so I receiveda surly but not unfriendly salute from Abel, the grim little old groomwith iron-grey whiskers who led our conveyance soberly away to thestable-yard. This groom was an old-fashioned coachman, and he had neverbeen heard to utter a sentence of more than six words. His usual reply,when asked about the health of one of the horses, was either, "Wellenough" or "Not over-bright." Stephen now reminded him (quiteunnecessarily, and probably not for the first time) that two of thehorses would be going out hunting on Monday. Abel grunted, "Got 'em bothshod this afternoon," and disappeared round the corner of the shrubberywith the buggy.

There was only one thing against him, said Stephen, and that was that hehadn't a ghost of an idea how to trim their tails, which were always anabsolute disgrace. "I've told him again and again to pull the hairout," he remarked, "but he goes on just the same, cutting them withscissors, and the result is that they come out at the opening meet withtails like chrysanthemums!"

From this it may be inferred that there were many things in the Rectorystable which fell short of Stephen's ideal. He and his brothers werealways trying to bring 'the old guv'nor' into line with what theybelieved to be the Melton Mowbray standard of smartness. There was alsothe question of persuading him to buy a motor-car. But Parson Colwoodwas a Sussex man by birth and he valued his native provincialism morethan the distant splendours of the Shires toward which his offspringturned their unsophisticated eyes. The Rectory, as I knew it then, hadthe charm of something untouched by modernity.

The Rev. Harry Colwood, as I remember him, was a composite portrait ofCharles Kingsley and Matthew Arnold. This fanciful resemblance has noconnection with literature, toward which Mr. Colwood's disposition wasrespectful but tepid. My mental semi-association of him with Arnold isprobably due to the fact that he had been in the Rugby eleven somewherein the 'sixties. And I have, indeed, heard him speak of Arnold's poem,Rugby Chapel. But the Kingsley affinity was more clearly recognizable.Like Kingsley, Mr. Colwood loved riding, shooting, and fishing, andbelieved that such sports were congruous with the Christian creed whichhe unobtrusively accepted and lived up to. It is questionable, however,whether he would have agreed with Kingsley's Christian Socialism. One ofhis maxims was "Don't marry for money but marry where money is," and hehad carried this into effect by marrying, when he was over forty, asensible Scotch lady with a fortune of £1,500 a year, thereby enablinghis three sons to be brought up as keen fox-hunters, game-shooters, andsalmon-fishers. And however strongly the Author of his religion mighthave condemned these sports, no one could deny him the Christianadjectives gentle, patient, and just.

At first I had been intimidated by him, for the scrutinizing look thathe gave me was both earnest and stern. His were eyes which lookedstraight at the world from under level brows, and there was strictnessin the lines of his mouth. But the kindliness of his nature emerged inthe tone of his voice, which was pitched moderately low. In his voice adesire for gaiety seemed to be striving to overmaster an inherentsadness. This undertone of sadness may have been accentuated as theresult of his ripened understanding of a world which was not allskylarking and sport, but Stephen (who was a lankier and lessregular-featured edition of his father) had inherited the same qualityof voice. Mr. Colwood was a naturally nervous man with strong emotions,which he rigidly repressed at all times.

When I arrived that afternoon both the Rector and his wife wereattending some parochial function in the village. So Stephen took me upto the schoolroom, where we had our tea and he jawed to me about horsesand hunting to his heart's content. He ended by asserting that he'd'sooner cheer a pack of Pomeranians after a weasel from a bath-chairthan waste his life making money in a blinking office.'

[II]

A tenor bell in Hoadley Church tower was making its ultimate appeal tothose who were still on their way to morning service. While Stephen andI hurried hatless across the sloping cricket-field which divided theRectory garden from the churchyard I sniffed the quiet wintry-smellingair and wondered how long Mr. Colwood's sermon would last. I had neverbeen to his church before; there was a suggestion of embarrassment inthe idea of seeing him in a long white surplice--almost as if one weretaking an unfair advantage of him. Also, since I hadn't been to churchwith Aunt Evelyn for Heaven knew how long, I felt a bit of an outsideras I followed Stephen up the aisle to the Rectory pew where his matronlymother was awaiting us with the solemnly cheerful face of one who nevermumbled the responses but made them as though she meant every word.Stephen, too, had the serene sobriety of an habitual public-worshipper.No likelihood of his standing up at one of those awkward places wheneveryone kneels down when you don't expect them to.

As the service proceeded I glanced furtively around me at the prudentSunday-like faces of the congregation. I thought of the world outside,and the comparison made life out there seem queer and unreal. I felt asif we were all on our way to next week in a ship. But who was I, andwhat on earth had I been doing? My very name suddenly seemed as thoughit scarcely belonged to me. Stephen was sitting there beside me, anyhow;there was no doubt about his identity, and I thought what a nice face hehad, gentle and humorous and alight with natural intelligence. I lookedfrom him to his father, who had been in the background, so far, sincethe curate had been reading the service (in an unemphatic businesslikevoice). But the Rector's eye met mine, which shied guiltily away, and mywool-gathering was interrupted. Even so might his gaze have alighted onone of the coughing village children at the back of the church.

My sense of unfamiliarity with what was going on was renewed whenColonel Hesmon's wizened face and bushy grey eyebrows appeared above theshiny brass eagle to read the First Lesson. This was not quite the sameColonel who had been in such a frenzy of excitement over thepoint-to-point race eight months ago, when he had exclaimed, over andover again, "I've told the boy that if he wins I'll give him thehorse!"

The Colonel's voice was on church parade now, and he was every inch achurchwarden as well. He went through the lesson with dispassionatedistinctness and extreme rapidity. Since it was a long passage fromIsaiah, he went, as he would have said, "a rattling good gallop." Butthe words, I thought, were incongruous ones when uttered by the Colonel."And he will lift up an ensign to the nations from far, and will hissunto them from the end of the earth: and, behold, they shall come withspeed swiftly: none shall be weary nor stumble among them; none shallslumber nor sleep; neither shall the girdle of their loins be loosed,nor the latchet of their shoes be broken: whose arrows are sharp, andall their bows bent, their horses' hoofs shall be counted like flint,and their wheels like a whirlwind; their roaring shall be like a lion,they shall roar like young lions: yea, they shall roar, and lay hold ofthe prey, and shall carry it away safe, and none shall deliver it. Andin that day they shall war against them like the roaring of the sea: andif one look unto the land, behold darkness and sorrow, and the light isdarkened in the heavens thereof. Here endeth the First Lesson." And thebrisk little man turned over the leaves to a passage from Peter,arranged the gold-embroidered marker, and returned to his pew with erectand decorous demeanour.

Twenty minutes later Mr. Colwood climbed the pulpit steps to the strainsof 'O God our help in ages past.' My own vocal contribution wasinconspicuous, but I had a stealthy look at my watch, which causedStephen, who was giving a creditable performance of the hymn, to nudgeme with his elbow. The sermon lasted a laborious twelve minutes. TheRector had a nervous mannerism which consisted in his continuallygathering up his surplice with his left hand, as if he were testing thequality of the linen with his fingers. The offertory was for amissionary society, and he took as his text: "He that hath two coats,let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him dolikewise." The results of the collection were handed to him on a woodenplate by the Colonel, who remarked afterwards at lunch that he "didn'tmind saying that with the best will in the world he'd have preferred togive his half-sovereign to someone nearer home"--Stephen having alreadymade his rather obvious joke--"Whatever the Guv'nor may say in hissermon about 'imparting,' if I ever get a new hunting-coat I'm going toruddy well keep my old one for wet days!"

The sun was shining when we emerged from the musty smelling interior.The Colonel, with his nattily rolled umbrella, perfectly brushed bowlerhat, and nervously blinking eyes, paid his respects to Mrs. Colwood withpunctilious affability; then he shepherded Stephen and myself away tohave a look round his stables before lunch. We were there in less thanfive minutes, the Colonel chatting so gaily all the way that I couldscarcely have got a word in edgeways even if I had felt sufficientconfidence in myself to try.

The Colonel had been a widower for many years, and like most lonelyliving people he easily became talkative. Everything in hisestablishment was arranged and conducted with elaborate nicety androutine, and he took an intense pride in his stable, which containedhalf a dozen hunters who stood in well-aired and roomy loose-boxes,surrounded by every luxury which the Colonel's care could contrive: thename of each horse was on a tablet suspended above the manger. Elegantgreen stable-buckets (with the Colonel's numerous initials painted onthem in white) were arranged at regular intervals along the walls, andthe harness-room was hung with enough bits and bridles to stock asaddler's shop. It was, as Stephen pointed out to me afterwards, "aregular museum of mouth-gear." For the Colonel was one of those fussyriders with indifferent hands who are always trying their horses with anew bit.

"I haven't found the key to this mare's mouth yet," he would say, as theirritated animal shook its head and showered everyone within range withflecks of froth. And when he got home from hunting he would say to hisconfidential old head-groom: "I think this mare's still a bitunder-bitted, Dumbrell," and they would debate over half the bits in theharness-room before he rode the mare again.

'Sunday morning stables' being one of his favourite ceremonies, theColonel now led us from one loose-box to another, commentingaffectionately on each inmate, and stimulated by the fact that one ofhis audience was a stranger. Each of them, apparently, was a compendiumof unique equine qualities, on which I gazed with unaffected admiration,while Stephen chimed in with "Never seen the old chestnut look so fit,Colonel," or "Looking an absolute picture," while Dumbrell wasdeferentially at hand all the time to share the encomiums offered to hischarges. The Colonel, of course, had a stock repertory of remarks abouteach one of them, including how they had won a certain point-to-point or(more frequently) why they hadn't. The last one we looked at was a bigwell-bred brown horse who stood very much 'over at the knees.' TheColonel had hunted him twelve seasons and he had an equivalently longrigmarole to recite about him, beginning with "I remember Sam Hamessaying to me--(I bought him off old Hames of Leicester, you know)--thathorse is the most natural jumper I've ever had in my stable. And he wasright, for the old horse has only given me one bad toss in twelve years,and that was no fault of his own, for he landed on the stump of a willowtree; it was at that rough fence just outside Clout's Wood--nasty place,too--you remember I showed it you the other day, Steve;" all of whichStephen had probably heard fifty times before, and had been shown the'nasty place' half a dozen times into the bargain. It was only when heheard the distant booming of the luncheon-gong that the Colonel was ableto tear himself away from the brown horse's loose-box.

While going into the house we passed through what he called 'thecleaning room,' which was a sort of wide corridor with a skylight to it.Along the wall stood an astonishing array of hunting-boots. These struckme as being so numerous that I had the presence of mind to count them.There were twenty-seven pairs. Now a good pair of top-boots, if properlylooked after and repaired, will last the owner a good many years; and anew pair once in three years might be considered a liberal allowance fora man who has started with two or three pairs. But the Colonel wasnothing if not regular in his habits; every autumn he visited, with theutmost solemnity, an illustrious bootmaker in Oxford Street; and eachimpeccable little pair of boots had signalized the advent of yet anotheropening meet. And, since they had been impeccably cared for and theColonel seldom hunted more than three days a week, they had consequentlyaccumulated. As we walked past them it was as though Lord Roberts wereinspecting the local Territorials, and the Colonel would have beengratified by the comparison to that gallant Field-Marshal.

It did not strike me at the time that there was something dumblypathetic about those chronological boots with their mahogany, nut-brown,and salmon-coloured tops. But I can see now that they symbolized muchthat was automatic and sterile in the Colonel's career. He had retiredfrom the Army twenty years before, and was now sixty-six, though activeand well preserved. And each of those twenty years had been asstereotyped as his ideas. The notions on which he had patterned himselfwere part regimental and part sporting. As a military man he wassaturated with the Balaclava spirit, and one could also imagine himsaying, "Women and children first" on a foundering troopship (was it the'Warren Hastings' which went down in the early 'nineties?). But the BoerWar had arrived seven years too late for him, and the gist of the matterwas that he'd never seen any active service. And somehow, when one cameto know him well, one couldn't quite imagine him in the Charge of theLight Brigade: but this may have been because, in spite of the dashinglight-cavalry tone of his talk, he had served in a line regiment, andnot at all a smart one either. (His affluence dated from the day when hehad married where money was.)

As a sportsman he had modelled himself on what I may call theWythe-Melville standard. His conversational behaviour echoed thesentiments and skylarking vivacities of mid-Victorian sporting novelsand the coloured prints of a slightly earlier period. And yet one couldno more imagine him participating in a moonlight steeplechase than onecould visualize him being shot through the Bible in his breast pocket ina death or glory attack. Like many chivalrous spirits, he could neverquite live up to the ideal he aimed at. He was always talking about'Brooksby,' a hard-riding journalist who, in the Colonel's heyday, hadwritten regularly for The Field. He had several volumes of theselively scribblings and he had read and reread them in his solitaryevenings until he knew the name of every gorse-covert and woodland inthe Shires.

But as Stephen might have said (if he'd been capable of relaxing hisadmirable loyalty to his godfather), "The dear old Colonel's alwaysbucking about Leicestershire, but I don't suppose he's had half a dozendays there since he was foaled!" And when the Colonel asked one to dineat 'the Club' ("You'll always find me in town in Ascot week, my dearboy"), 'the Club' (he had two) wasn't quite up to the standard he sethimself, since instead of being that full-blown fogeydom 'the Naval andMilitary,' it had to face things out as merely ("Capital Club! Lot ofnice young chaps there!") 'the Junior.'

On this special Sunday, however, I could still estimate the Colonel'simportance as being equivalent to twenty-seven pairs of top-boots. Infact, I thought him a terrific swell, and it wouldn't have surprised meto hear that he'd won the Grand National when he was a gallant youngsubaltern. At luncheon (roast beef and apple tart) he was the mostattentive of hosts, and by the time we had finished our port--("I thinkyou'll find this a nice light-bodied wine. I get it through theClub")--he had given most of his favourite anecdotes an airing. Whilethe decanter was on its way round Stephen tackled him about the miseriesof learning to be a chartered accountant. The lament was well received,and when he said, "I've been wondering, Colonel, whether I couldn'tpossibly get into the Gunners through the Special Reserve," the idea wasconsidered a capital one.

The Colonel's face lit up: "I tell you what, my boy, I'll write at onceto an old friend of mine at the War Office. Excellent officer--used tobe in the 'Twenty-Third.' Very useful man on a horse, too."

Warmed up by the thought of Stephen getting a commission, he asked mewhether I was in the Yeomanry. Reluctantly confessing that I wasn't, Iadded that I'd been thinking about it; which was true, and the thoughthad filled me with unutterable alarm. When we rose from our chairs theColonel drew my attention to the oil-paintings which adorned the walls.These were portraits of his past and present hunters--none of whom,apparently, "knew what it was to put a foot wrong." Among many otherrelics and associative objects which he showed us was a large greenparrot which he "had bought from a sailor five-and-twenty years ago." Hehad taught the bird to ejaculate "Tear 'im and eat 'im," and otherhunting noises. Finally, with a certain access of grand seigneurdignity, he waved to us from his front doorstep and vanished into thehouse, probably to write a letter to his old friend at the War Office.

[III]

At nine o'clock next morning my cold fingers were making their usualbungling efforts to tie a white stock neatly; but as I had never beenshown how to do it, my repeated failures didn't surprise me, though Iwas naturally anxious not to disgrace the Rectory on my first appearanceat a meet of the Ringwell Hounds. The breakfast bell was supplemented byStephen's incitements to me to hurry up; these consisted in cries of"Get-along-forrid" and similar hunt-servant noises, which accentuated mygeneral feeling that I was in for a big day. While I was putting thefinal touches to my toilet I could hear him shouting to the two Scotchterriers who were scuttling about the lawn: (he was out there having alook at that important thing, the weather).

Fully dressed and a bit flurried, I stumped downstairs and made for thelow buzz of conversation in the dining-room. Purposing to make themoderately boisterous entry appropriate to a hunting morning, I openedthe door. After a moment of stupefaction I recoiled into the passage,having beheld the entire household on its knees, with backs of varyingsizes turned toward me: I had entered in the middle of the Lord'sPrayer. After a temporizing stroll on the lawn I re-entered the roomunobtrusively; Stephen handed me a plate of porridge with a grin and noother reference was made to my breach of decorum.

After breakfast he told me that I'd no more idea of tying a stock thanan ironmonger; when he had retied it for me he surveyed the result withsatisfaction and announced that I now "looked ready to compete againstall the cutting and thrusting soldier-officers in creation."

By a quarter past ten the Rector was driving me to the meet in thebuggy--the groom having ridden his horse on with Stephen, who wasjogging sedately along on Jerry. The Rector, whose overcoat had anastrakhan collar, was rather reticent, and we did the five miles to themeet without exchanging many remarks. But it was a comfort, after mysolitary sporting experiments, to feel that I had a couple of friendlychaperons, and Stephen had assured me that my hireling knew his way overevery fence in the country and had never been known to turn his head. Myonly doubt was whether his rider would do him credit. We got to the meetin good time, and Mr. Whatman, a very large man who kept a very largelivery-stable and drove a coach in the summer, was loquacious about themerits of my hireling, while he supervised my settlement in the saddle,which felt a hard and slippery one.

As I gathered up the thin and unflexible reins I felt that he wasconferring a privilege on me by allowing me to ride the horse--aprivilege for which the sum of thirty-five shillings seemed inadequaterepayment. My mount was a wiry, nondescript-coloured animal, sober andunexcitable. It was evident from the first that he knew much more aboutthe game than I did. He was what is known as a 'safe conveyance' or'patent-safety'; this more than atoned for his dry-coated andill-groomed exterior. By the time I had been on his back an hour I feltmore at home than I had ever done when out with the Dumborough.

The meet was at 'The Five Bells,' a wayside inn close to Basset Wood,which was the chief stronghold of fox-preservation in that part of theRingwell country. There was never any doubt about finding a fox atBasset. Almost a mile square, it was well-rided and easy to get aboutin, though none too easy to get a fox away from. It was also, as Stephenremarked when we entered it, an easy place to get left in unless onekept one's eyes and ears skinned. And his face kindled at the delightfulnotion of getting well away with the hounds, leaving three parts of thefield coffee-housing at the wrong end of the covert. It was a greymorning, with a nip in the air which made him hopeful that "hounds wouldfairly scream along" if they got out in the open and, perhaps for thefirst time in my life, I felt a keen pleasure in the idea of sittingdown and cramming my horse at every obstacle that might come in our way.

In the meantime I had got no more than a rough idea of the seventy oreighty taciturn or chattering riders who were now making their wayslowly along the main-ride while the huntsman could be heard cheeringhis hounds a little way off among the oaks and undergrowth. I hadalready noticed several sporting farmers in blue velvet caps andlong-skirted black coats of country cut. And scarlet-coated ColonelHesmon had proffered me a couple of brown-gloved fingers with the jauntyairified manner of a well-dressed absent-minded swell. He was on hiscorky little grey cob, and seemed to be having rather a rough ride. Infact the impetuous behaviour of the cob suggested that the Colonel hadyet to find the key to his mouth.

An open space toward the top end of the wood formed a junction of thenumerous smaller paths which were tributaries of that main channel--themiddle-ride. At this point of vantage a few of the more prominentcharacters from among the field had pulled up, and since the hounds hadyet to find a fox I was able to take a few observations of people whoafterwards became increasingly familiar to me in my mental conspectus ofthe Ringwell Hunt. Among them was the Master, of whom there is little tobe said except that he was a rich man whose resignation was alreadyrumoured. His only qualification was his wealth, and he had had the badluck (or bad judgment) to engage a bad huntsman. Needless to say theMaster's perplexities had been aggravated by the criticisms andcavillings of subscribers who had neither the wealth, knowledge, norinitiative necessary for the office which this gentleman had found soungrateful. Much of this I had already learned at the Rectory, where hewas given his due for having done his best to hunt the country inhandsome style. Sitting there that morning on a too-good-looking,well-bred horse, he seemed glum and abstracted, as though he suspectedthat most of his field would poke fun at him when his back was turned.One of his troubles was that he'd never learnt how to blow his hornproperly, and his inexpert tootlings afforded an adequate excuse forthose who enjoyed ridiculing him.

Chief among these was Nigel Croplady. When I first observed him he wassitting sideways on his compact short-tailed brown horse; a glossytop-hat was tilted over his nose. His supercilious, clean-shaven facewas preoccupied with a loose-lipped inspection of his own left leg; hisboot-tops were a delicate shell-pink, and his well-cleaned white'leathers' certainly justified his self-satisfied scrutiny of them.

"That blighter's always talking about getting a flying-start," remarkedStephen in an undertone, "but when hounds run he's the mostchicken-hearted skirter in Sussex." I was able to verify this later inthe day when I saw him go irresolutely at a small fence on a bank, pullhis horse across it with a shout of "Ware wire!" and hustle away insearch of a gate, leaving a hard-riding farmer to take it in hisstride--the wire having been an improvisation of Croplady's over-prudentmind.

The group which I was watching also included two undemonstrative elderlymen (both of whom, said Stephen, were fifty pound subscribers andimportant covert owners) and several weather-beaten ladies, none of whomlooked afraid of a liberal allowance of mud and water.

The Rev. Colwood (who was on a one-eyed screw which his soldier-son hadpicked up for seventeen pounds at a sale of Army remounts) now joinedthe group. He was sitting well forward in the saddle with theconstrained look of a man who rather expects his horse to cross itsfront legs and pitch him over its head. Beside him, on a plump whiteweight-carrier, was a spare-built middle-aged man in a faded pink coatwho scattered boisterous vociferations on everybody within hail."Morning, Master. Morning, Mrs. Moffat. Morning, Nigel." His beamingrecognitions appeared to include the whole world in a sort of New Year'sDay greeting. And "Hallo, Stephen ole man," he shouted, turning in ourdirection so suddenly that his animal's rotund hind quarters bumped theRector's horse on his blind side and nearly knocked him over. Thecollision culminated when he grabbed my hand and wrung it heartily withthe words, "Why, Jack, my lad, I thought you were still out in India!" Istared at him astonished, while his exuberance became puzzled andapologetic.

"Is it Jack?" he asked, adding, with a loud laugh, "No, it's someother young bloke after all. But you're the living split of Steve'selder brother--say what you like!"

In this way I became acquainted with one of the most popular charactersin the Hunt. Arthur Brandwick was a doctor who had given up his smallcountry practice some years before. 'Always merry and bright' was hismotto, and he now devoted his bachelor energies to the pursuit of thefox and the conversion of the human race to optimism.

A solemn purple-faced man, who had been eyeing me as if he also had hisdoubts about my identity, now came up and asked me for a sovereign. Thiswas Mr. McCosh, the Hunt secretary, and it was my first experience ofbeing 'capped' as a stranger. I produced the gold coin, but he verycivilly returned it when Stephen informed him that I was staying at theRectory.

Just as these negotiations concluded, a chorus of excited hallooings onthe outskirts of the wood proclaimed that Reynard had been viewed bysome pedestrians.

"Those damned foot people again! I'll bet a tenner they've headed himback!" sneered Croplady, whose contempt for the lower classes was onlyequalled by his infatuation for a title. (His family wereold-established solicitors in Downfield, but Nigel was too great a swellto do much work in his father's office, except to irritate the clients,many of whom were farmers, with his drawling talk and dandifiedmanners.)

"Come on, Snowball!" exclaimed Brandwick, shaking his corpulent whitesteed into a canter, and away he went along the main-ride, ramming hishat down on his head with the hand that held his whip and scattering mudin every direction.

"Chuckle-headed old devil! Mad as a hatter but as kind-hearted as theymake 'em," said Stephen, watching him as he dipped in and out of thehollows with his coat-tails flapping over his horse's wide rump. Andwithout any undue haste he started off along one of the smaller rideswith myself and my hireling at his heels.

Everybody hustled away into the wood except the stolid secretary and twoother knowledgeable veterans. Having made up their minds that the foxwould stick to the covert, they remained stock-still like equestrianstatues, watching for him to cross the middle-ride. They were right.Fox-hunting wiseacres usually are (though it was my wilful habit inthose days to regard everyone who preferred going through a gate tofloundering over a fence as being unworthy of the name of sportsman).

Later on, while Stephen and I were touring the covert with our earsopen, we overtook a moody faced youth on a handsome bay horse. "Hullo,Tony! I thought you'd parted with that conspicuous quad of yours atTatts last week," exclaimed Stephen, riding robustly up alongside of himand giving the bay horse a friendly slap on his hind quarters.

Young Lewison (I remembered what Stephen had said about him and theexpensive hunter which he 'couldn't ride a hair of') informed us thatthe horse had been bought by a Warwickshire dealer and then returned asa slight whistler. "I'm sick of the sight of him," he remarked, lettingthe reins hang listlessly on the horse's neck.

Gazing at the nice-looking animal, I inwardly compared him with dear oldHarkaway. The comparison was all in favour of the returned whistler,whose good points were obvious even to my inexperienced eyes. In fact,he was almost suspiciously good-looking, though there was nothing flashyabout his fine limbs, sloping shoulders, and deep chest.

"His wind can't be very bad if you'd never noticed it," remarkedStephen, eyeing him thoughtfully, "and he certainly does look a perfectgentleman."

Meanwhile the horse stood there as quiet as if he were having hispicture painted. "I wish to goodness someone would give me fifty poundsfor him," exclaimed Lewison petulantly, and I had that queer sensationwhen an episode seems to have happened before. The whole scene wasstrangely lit up for me; I could have sworn that I knew what he wasgoing to say before a single word was out of his mouth. And when,without a second's hesitation, I replied, "I'll give you fifty poundsfor him," I was merely overhearing a remark which I had already made.

Young Lewison looked incredulous; but Stephen intervened, with no signof surprise, "Damn it, George, you might do worse than buy him, at thatprice. Hop off your hireling and see what he feels like."

I had scarcely settled myself in the new saddle when there was a shrillhalloa from a remote side of the covert. We galloped away, leavingLewison still whoaing on one leg round the hireling, who was eager to beafter us.

"Well, I'm jiggered! What an enterprising old card you are!" ejaculatedStephen, delightedly slapping his leg with his crop and then leaningforward to listen for the defect in the bay horse's wind. "Push himalong, George," he added; but we were already galloping freely, and Ifelt much more like holding him back. "Dashed if I can hear a ghost ofa whistle!" muttered Stephen, as we pulled up at a hunting-gate out ofBasset Wood.

"We're properly left this time, old son." He trotted down the lane andpopped over a low heave-gate into a grass field. My horse followed himwithout demur. There wasn't a trace of the hunt in sight, but we wenton, jumping a few easy fences, and my heart leapt with elation at theway my horse took them, shortening and then quickening his stride andslipping over them with an ease and neatness which were a revelation tome.

"This horse is an absolute dream!" I gasped as Stephen stopped tounlatch a gate.

But Stephen's face now looked fit for a funeral. "They must have runlike stink and we've probably missed the hunt of the season," hegrumbled.

A moment later his face lit up again. "There's thehorn--right-handed--over by the Binsted covers!" And away he went acrossa rushy field as fast as old Jerry could lay legs to the ground.

A lot of hoof-marks and a gap in a big boundary fence soon showed uswhere the hunt had gone. We were now on some low-lying meadows, and hesaid it looked as if we'd have to jump the Harcombe brook. As weapproached it there was a shout from downstream and we caught sight ofsomeone in distress. A jolly faced young farmer was up to his arm-pitsin the water with his horse plunging about beside him.

"Hullo, it's Bob Millet and his tubed mare!" Stephen jumped off Jerryand hurried to the rescue.

"I'm having the devil's own job to keep the water out of my mare,"shouted Millet, who didn't seem to be worrying much about getting soakedto the skin.

"Haven't you got a cork?" inquired Stephen. "No, Mr. Colwood, but I'mkeeping my finger on the hole in her neck. She'll be drowned if Idon't."

This peculiar situation was solved by Stephen, who held the mare by herbridle and skilfully extricated her after several tremendous heaves andstruggles.

We then crossed the brook by a wooden bridge a few hundred yardsaway--young Millet remarking that he'd never come out again without hiscork. Soon afterwards we came up with the hounds, who had lost their foxand were drawing the Binsted covers without much enthusiasm. ColonelHesmon commiserated with us for having missed "quite a pretty littledart in the open." If he'd been on his brown mare, he said, he'd havehad a cut at the Harcombe brook. "But this cob of mine won't facewater," he remarked, adding that he'd once seen half the Quorn fieldheld up by a brook you could have jumped in your boots.

* * * * * * *

The huntsman now enlivened the deflated proceedings by taking his houndsto a distant holloa on the other side of the brook. A man on a bicyclehad viewed our fox returning to Basset Wood. The bicyclist (Stephen toldme as we passed him in the lane where he'd been providing the flusteredhuntsman with exact information) was none other than the genius whoreported the doings of the Hunt for the Southern Daily News. In thesummer he umpired in county cricket matches, which caused me to regardhim as quite a romantic personality.

While they were hunting slowly back to the big wood on a very staleline, young Lewison reappeared on my hireling. Looking more doleful thanever, he asked how I liked Cockbird. Before I had time to answer Stepheninterposed with "He makes a distinct noise, Tony, and his wind's boundto get worse. But my friend Sherston likes the feel of him and he'llgive you fifty."

I concealed my surprise. Stephen had already assured me that the whistlewas so slight as to be almost undetectable. He had also examinedCockbird's legs and pronounced them perfect. Almost imperceptible, too,was the wink with which Stephen put me wise about his strategicutterance, and I met Lewison's lack-lustre eyes with contrivedindifference as I reiterated my willingness to give him fifty.Internally, however, I was in a tumult of eagerness to call Cockbird myown at any price, and when my offer had been definitely accepted nothingwould induce me to get off his back. We soon arranged that Mr. Whatman'ssecond horseman should call for the hireling at Lewison's house on hisway back to Downfield.

"We'll send you your saddle and bridle to-morrow," shouted Stephen, asCockbird's ex-owner disappeared along the lane outside Basset Wood."Tony never thinks of anything except getting home to his tea," headded.

We then exchanged horses, and though the hounds did very little morethat afternoon, our enthusiasm about my unexpected purchase kept ourtongues busy; we marvelled more and more that anyone could be such a mugas to part with him for fifty pounds. As we rode happily home to theRectory Cockbird jogged smoothly along with his ears well forward.Demure and unexcited, he appeared neither to know nor to care about hischange of ownership.

* * * * * * *

"Mr. Pennett can go to blazes!" I said to myself while I was blissfullyruminating in my bath before dinner. Stephen then banged on the door andasked if I intended to stay in there all night, so I pulled the plugout, whereupon the water began to run away with a screeching soundpeculiar to that particular bathroom. (Why is it that up-to-datebathrooms have so much less individuality than their Victorianancestors? The Rectory one, with its rough-textured paint and darkwooden casing, had the atmosphere of a narrow converted lumber-room, andits hotwater pipes were a subdued orchestra of enigmatic noises.)

While the water was making its raucous retreat my flippant ultimatum tothe family solicitor was merged in a definite anxiety about paying forCockbird. And then there was (an additional fifteen guineas) thequestion of my subscription to the Ringwell.

"Of course, you'll enter him for our point-to-point," Stephen had saidwhile we were on our way home. "He's a lot faster than Jerry, and he'llsimply walk away with the Heavy Weights. Send in your sub. and startqualifying him at once. You've only got to bring him out eight times.He's done nothing to-day, so you can have him out again on Wednesday."

The idea of my carrying off the Colonel's Cup had caused me delicioustrepidations. But now, in the draughty bathroom and by the light of abedroom candle, I was attacked by doubts and misgivings. It was easyenough for Stephen to talk about 'qualifying' Cockbird; but how about myown qualifications as a race-rider? The candle flickered as if inominous agreement with my scruples. There was a drop of water on thewick and the flame seemed to be fizzling toward extinction. Making it myfortune-teller, I decided that if it went out I should fall off at thefirst fence. After a succession of splutters it made a splendid recoveryand spired into a confident survival.

* * * * * * *

At the dinner-table the Rector glowed with austere geniality while hecarved the brace of pheasants which represented a day's covert-shootinghe'd had with Lord Dumborough--"a long-standing annual fixture of mine,"he called it. During our day's hunting we had only caught occasionalglimpses of him. But he had got away from Basset Wood with the hounds,and had evidently enjoyed himself in his reticent way. We discussedevery small detail of our various experiences. Kind Mrs. Colwood kept upwith the conversation as well as could be expected from an absentee whohadn't ridden since she was quite a girl. She was interested and amusedby hearing all about who had been out and what they had said, but sheobviously found some difficulty in sharing her husband's satisfactionabout the clever way in which 'Lord Nelson' (the one-eyed horse) hadpopped over a stile with an awkward take-off and a drop on thelanding-side. She must have endured many anxious hours while her familywere out hunting, but her pinnacle of perturbation had been reached whenStephen rode in the Hunt Races--an ordeal which (unless Jerry went lame)was re-awaiting the next April. She could never be induced to attend'those horrible point-to-points' which, as she often said, would be thedeath of her.

On this particular evening my new horse was naturally the main topic,and his health was drunk in some port which had been 'laid down' in theyear of Stephen's birth. After this ceremony the Rector announced thathe'd heard for certain that the Master was sending in his resignation.

"Here's to our next one," he added, raising his glass again, "and I hopehe'll engage a first-rate huntsman."

I assumed a sagacious air while they deplored the imperfections of BenTrotter, and the way he was forever lifting his hounds and losing hishead. Stephen remarked that whatever those humanitarian cranks mightsay, there was precious little cruelty to foxes when they were beinghunted by a chap like Ben, who was always trying to chase his foxhimself and never gave his hounds a chance to use their noses. TheRector sighed and feared that it was no use pretending that the Ringwellwas anything but a cold-scenting country. We then adjourned to thestudy, where we soon had our noses close to the ordnance map. At thismoment I can see Mr. Colwood quite clearly. With a slight frown he isfilling his pipe from a tin of 'Three Nuns' mixture; on the wall behindhim hangs a large engraving of 'Christ leaving the Praetorium.'

[IV]

Early in the afternoon of the following Thursday I journeyed homeward inthe jolting annex of a horse-box. Although it was a sort of fifth-classcompartment I felt serenely contented as I occasionally put my handthrough the aperture to stroke Cockbird's velvet nose. He appeared to bea docile and experienced railway traveller, and when he stepped out ofthe box at Dumbridge Station he had an air of knowing that he'd savedhimself a twenty-mile walk. The porters eyed him with the respect due tosuch a well-bred animal. Having arranged for my kit-bag to be conveyedto Butley on the carrier's van, I swung myself into the saddle which Ihad borrowed from the Colwoods. It was a mellow afternoon formid-winter, and our appearance, as reflected in the Dumbridgeshop-windows, made me feel what, in those days, I should have called 'afrightful nut.' Cockbird's impeccable behaviour out hunting on theprevious day had increased my complacency, and it was now an establishedfact that I had got hold of a top-hole performer with perfect manners.

Nobody at home was aware of what I'd been up to down in Sussex, andDixon got the surprise of his life when we clattered into thestable-yard. So far as he was concerned it was the first reallyindependent action of my career. When I arrived he was having his tea inhis cottage above the coach-house; I could hear him clumping down thesteep wooden stairs, and I sat like a statue until he emerged from thedoor by the harness-room with his mouth full of bread and butter. Theafternoon was latening, but there was, I think, a quietly commemorativeglow from the west. He stood with the sunset on his face and his finalswallowing of the mouthful appeared to epitomize his astonishment. Takenaback he undoubtedly was, but his voice kept its ordinary composure."Why, what's this?" he asked. I told him.

* * * * * * *

Aunt Evelyn behaved like a brick about Cockbird. (How was it that bricksbecame identified with generous behaviour?) Of course she admired himimmensely and considered it very clever of me to have bought him socheap. But when it came to writing out the cheque for him I was obliged,for the first time in my life, to ask her to lend me some money. Shepromised to let me have it in a few days.

Next morning she went to London, "just to do a little Christmas shoppingat the Army and Navy Stores." I was in the drawing-room when shereturned. I heard the dog-cart drive up to the front door, and then AuntEvelyn's voice telling Miriam how tired she felt and asking her to makesome tea. I didn't bother to get up when she came into the room, andafter replying to my perfunctory inquiry whether she'd had a good dayshe went to her bureau and fussed about with some papers. Somewhatirritably I wondered what she was in such a stew about as soon as she'dgot home. Her quill-pen squeaked for a short time and then she cameacross to the arm-chair where I was sitting with Edmund Gosse's Fatherand Son on my knee.

"There, dear. There's the money for your horse, and the Huntsubscription as well." She placed a cheque on the arm of the chair."It's your Christmas present," she explained. It was so unexpected thatI almost forgot to thank her. But I had the grace to ask whether shecould really afford it.

"Well, dear," she said, "to tell the truth, I couldn't. But I cannow." And she confessed that she'd sold one of her rings forseventy-five pounds up in London. "And why not?" she asked. "I'm sodelighted at your having taken up hunting again; it's such a healthyhobby for a young man, and Dixon's almost beside himself--he's sopleased with the new horse. And after all, dear, I've got no otherinterest in the whole world except you."

Miriam then appeared with the tea-tray, and soon afterwards I wentupstairs to gloat over my good fortune.

Part Six
The Colonel's Cup

[I]

By the end of February I had made further progress in what I believed tobe an important phase of my terrestrial experience. In other words (andaided by an exceptionally mild winter) I had averaged five days afortnight with the hounds. I had, of course, confided in Dixon myintention of entering Cockbird for the Ringwell Heavy-Weight Race. Mymain object now seemed to be to jump as many fences as possible beforethat eventful day arrived. Meets of the Dumborough had been disregarded,and a series of short visits to the Rectory had continued the'qualifying' of Cockbird. ('Qualifying' consisted in drawing theMaster's attention to the horse during each day's hunting; and I didthis more than conscientiously, since Stephen and I were frequentlyshouted at by him for 'larking' over fences when the hounds weren'trunning.)

The problem of Harkaway's lack of stamina had been solved by Dixon whenhe suggested that I should box him to the Staghound meets. He told methat they generally had the best of their fun in the first hour, so Icould have a good gallop and bring the old horse home early. This tookme (by a very early train from Baldock Wood) to a new and remote part ofthe county, and some of the fun I enjoyed there is worth a few pages ofdescription.

The Coshford Vale Stag Hunt, which had been in existence as asubscription pack for about half a century, had been kept on its legs bythe devoted efforts of a group of prosperous hop-farmers and a family ofbrewers whose name was a household word in the district. Gimling's FineAles were a passport to popularity, and the genial activities of Mr.'Gus' Gimling, who had been Master for more years than he cared tocount, had kept the Hunt flourishing and assured it of a friendlyreception almost everywhere in the country over which it hunted(described in the scarlet-covered Hunting Directory as "principallypasture with very little plough"). This description encouraged me tovisualize an Elysium of green fields and jumpable hedges; but thecountry, although it failed to come up to my preconceived idea of itscharms, included a nice bit of vale; and in those days there was verylittle wire in the fences.

I need hardly say that, since stags were no longer indigenous to thatpart of England, the Coshford stag-hunters kept theirs at home (in adeer paddock a few miles from the kennels). The animal which had beenselected to provide the day's sport was carried to the meet in amysterious-looking van, driven by the deerkeeper, a ruddy faced Irishmanin a brown velveteen jacket who had earned a reputation for humorousrepartee, owing to the numerous inquiries of inquisitive persons on theroads who asked him what he'd got in that old hearse of his.

Provincial stag-hunts are commonly reputed to be comic and convivialgatherings which begin with an uproarious hunt-breakfast for the localfarmers. Purple-faced and bold with cherry brandy, they heave themselveson to their horses and set off across the country, frequently fallingoff in a ludicrous manner. But the Coshford sportsmen, as I knew them,were businesslike and well-behaved; they were out for a goodold-fashioned gallop. In fact, I think of them as a somewhat seriousbody of men. And since the field was mainly composed of farmers, therewas nothing smart or snobbish about the proceedings.

I need hardly say that there was no levity in my own attitude of mindwhen I set out for my first sample of this new experiment insportsmanship. In spite of talking big to Dixon the night before, I feltmore frightened than light-hearted. For I went alone and knew no onewhen I got there. Dixon had talked to me about Harry Buckman, who actedas amateur huntsman and was well known as a rider at hunt races all overthe county. That was about all I'd got to go on, and I gazed at Buckmanwith interest and admiration when he tit-tupped stylishly past me at themeet with his velvet cap cocked slightly over one ear. Buckman was amixture of horse-dealer and yeoman farmer. In the summer he rode jumpersin the show ring. His father had hunted a pack of harriers, and it wassaid that when times were bad he would go without his dinner himselfrather than stint his hounds of their oatmeal.

Roughly speaking, young Buckman's task as huntsman was twofold. Firstly,he was there to encourage and assist the hounds (a scratch pack--mostlydog-hounds drafted from foxhound kennels because they were over-sized)in following the trail of their unnaturally contrived quarry; secondly,he had to do everything he could to prevent his hounds from 'pullingdown' the deer. With this paradoxical but humane object in view he hadonce jumped a railway gate; by this feat of horsemanship he arrived inthe nick of time and saved the deer's life. Fast hunts were fairlyfrequent, but there were slow hunting days when scent was bad and theCoshford subscribers were able to canter along at their ease enjoying apretty bit of hound-work. Sometimes the uncarted animal got clean awayfrom them, and there was a special interest attached to a meet when theydrew for an outlying deer.

My first day with the Staghounds was on Christmas Eve and I find thefollowing entry in my diary: "Coshford; Packman's Green. Perfecthunting day; came on wet about 2.30. Turned out at Hazelpits Farm andran well to Wissenden, then on by Chartley Church and Henhurst down thehill and on towards Applestead. Took deer ('Miss Masterful') about 2.Nine-mile point. Harkaway in good form. Took a toss over a stile towardthe end. Very nice country, especially the first bit." From this conciseaccount it may seem as if I had already mastered the Coshfordtopography, but I suspect that my source of information was a paragraphin a local paper.

I cannot remember how I made myself acquainted with the name of the deerwhich provided the nine-mile point. But in any case, how much is takenfor granted and left unrecorded in that shorthand description? And howhelpful it would have been now if I had written an accurately observedand detailed narrative of the day. But since the object of these pagesis to supply that deficiency I must make my reminiscent deductions asbest I can. And those words from my diary do seem worth commentingon--symbolic as they are of the equestrian equilibrium on which myunseasoned character was trying to pattern itself. I wrote myself downthat evening as I wanted myself to be--a hard-bitten hunting man,self-possessed in his localized knowingness and stag-hunting jargon. Thewords might well have been penned by a middle-aged sheep-farmer, or evenby Mr. 'Gus' Gimling himself. "Took a toss over a stile" is the onlyhuman touch. But taking tosses was incidental to the glory of being ahard rider. What I ought to have written was--that I couldn't make up mymind whether to go at it or not, and the man behind me shouted "go on ifyou're going," so I felt flustered and let Harkaway rush at it anyhowand then jerked his mouth just as he was taking off, and he didn'treally fall, but only pecked badly and chucked me over his head and thenstood quite still waiting for me to scramble up again, and altogether itwas rather an inglorious exhibition, and thank goodness Stephen wasn'tthere to see it. For though Stephen and I always made a joke out ofevery toss we took, it wouldn't have suited my dignity if he'd told mein cold blood that I was still a jolly rotten rider--the tacitassumption being that my falls were entirely due to my thrustingintrepidity.

It will be noticed that no mention is made of the method by which 'MissMasterful' was 'taken,' although I had witnessed that performance forthe first time in my life. As far as I can recollect, Miss M. havingdecided that the show had lasted long enough, plunged into a small pondand stood there with only her small head appearing above the muddywater. Raucous ratings and loud whip-crackings restrained the bayinghounds from splashing in after her, and then genial Mr. Gimling,assisted by one of the whiskered wiseacres of the hunt (in aweather-stained black coat which came nearly down to his knees, whitecord breeches, black butcher-boots, and very long spurs), began to getbusy with a long rope. After Miss M. had eluded their attempts severaltimes they succeeded in lassooing her head and she was persuaded toemerge from the pond. She was then frog-marched away to a farm building,where she awaited the arrival of her conveyance, which was cruisingabout the country and usually put in an appearance much earlier thanmight have been expected.

It can also be inferred from my diary that the weather 'came on wet' assoon as I'd started my ten-mile ride back to the railway-station andHarkaway's horse-box, and that the supporters of the Coshford Huntdeparted in different directions wishing one another a merry Christmasand a happy New Year. It may also be inferred that poor Miss Masterfulsweated and shivered in the barn with heaving sides and frightened eyes.It did not occur to me to sympathize with her as I stood at the entranceto watch them tie her up. I only wondered how far I was from the stationand my poached eggs for tea. Any sympathy I had was reserved forHarkaway, who looked as if he'd had more galloping than was good forhim. But when I was jogging back by Chartley Church, with my coat collarturned up and the rain soaking my knees, I chuckled to myself as Ithought of an amusing incident which had happened earlier in the day.

We were galloping full-tilt along a road just outside a cosy village. Anangry faced old parson was leaning over his garden gate, and as weclattered past he shook his fist at us and shouted "Brutes! brutes!" ina loud unclerical voice. Excited and elated as I was, I turned in thesaddle and waved my whip derisively at him. Silly old buffer! And what acontrast to that jolly sporting parson in a low-crowned top-hat who wentso well and came up and talked to me so nicely while Miss Masterful wasbeing hauled out of the pond!

I have analysed the orthodox entry in my diary more fully than I hadintended. But how lifelessly I recover the breathing reality of whichthose words are the only relics. The night before hunting: the anxiouswonderings about the weather; lying awake for a while with busy thoughtsabout to-morrow that grow blurred with the beginning of an untroubledsleep. And then Miriam battering on the door with "it's twenty to seven,sir," and the first look at the quiet morning greyness, and theundefinable feeling produced by the yellow candlelight and the wintrysmelling air from the misty garden. Such was the impermanent fabric asit unfolded: memory enchants even the dilatory little train journeywhich carried my expectant simplicity into the freshness of a countryseen for the first time. All the sanguine guesswork of youth is there,and the silliness; all the novelty of being alive and impressed by theurgency of tremendous trivialities.

[II]

The end of February became the beginning of March, and this unavoidableprogression intensified my anticipations of the date in April whichmeant so much to me. Cockbird had done his eight qualifying days withoutthe slightest mishap or the least sign of unsoundness. He was sodelightfully easy to handle that my assurance as a rider had increasedrapidly. But in the period of preparation Dixon and I, between us,carried a large invisible load of solicitude and suspense. Ourconversational demeanour was jauntily portentous. But when I was alonewith myself and indoors, I often felt so nervous that the month-longremoteness of the point-to-points became almost unbearable. Myconfidence in Cockbird's ability to carry off the Colonel's Cup servedonly to magnify my imaginations of what might go wrong in the racethrough my own lack of experience.

I consoled myself with day-dreams in which I won in every way that mylimited racing repertory could contrive. There was cantering home aneasy winner; and there was winning cleverly by half a length; and therewas coming up with a rush to score sensationally in the last stride.Easy winner lacked intensity; I would have preferred something morespectacular and heroic. But this was difficult to manage; I couldn't winwith my arm in a sling unless I started in that condition, which wouldbe an anti-climax. On the whole I was in favour of a fine finish withStephen, although even this seemed inappropriate because Jerry wasbelieved to be much slower than Cockbird, and could only hope to win ifI fell--a thought which reduced my suppositions to reality.

Meanwhile Cockbird existed unperturbed, munching large feeds of crushedoats (with which Dixon mixed some water, for he had an idea that thiswas good for his wind) and doing three hours' steady work on the roadevery day. Once a week we took him to a ten-acre field on a hillside,which a well-disposed farmer allowed us to use for gallops. Round andround we went with set and serious faces (Dixon riding Harkaway), untilwe had done three presumptive miles up and down hill. When we pulled upDixon would jump off, and I would jump off to stand meekly by thehorse's snorting heads while he fussed around Cockbird with as muchsolemnity and solicitude as if he were a Grand National favourite. And,so far as we were concerned, 'the National' (which was to be run tendays before the Ringwell Heavy-Weight Race) was quite a secondaryaffair, though we sometimes talked about it in an offhand way whichmight have led a stranger to suppose that either of us might slip up toLiverpool to see it, provided that we could spare the time. Neither ofus doubted that Cockbird himself could 'get round Aintree' if asked todo so. He was, we agreed, a regular National stamp of horse, and thoughI had never seen an Aintree fence, I was quite sure that no fence wastoo big for him.

On some such afternoon (for we always went out in the afternoon, thoughbefore breakfast would have been more correct, but it would have madethe day so long and empty), on some such afternoon, when Cockbird haddone his gallop to our mutual satisfaction and we were jogging quietlyhome, with the sun making haloes on the fleeces of the sheep who watchedus pass--on some such afternoon, I repeat, I was reminded of the olddays when I was learning to ride the cob Sheila, and of how I used toask Dixon to pretend to be Mr. MacDoggart winning the Hunt Cup. Such asuggestion now would have struck both of us as unseemly; this was notime for such childish nonsense as that (though, when one came to thinkof it, twelve years ago wasn't such a very long time and 'the twentyhop-kilns' were still down there in the valley to remind me of mychildish excitement about them). But the thought passed through my mind,and at the same moment the warning whistle of a train going along theWeald would remind me of that interrogative railway journey which thethree of us would be making in not much more than two weeks' time--wasit really as near as that now?

The thought of Mr. MacDoggart's remote victories at Dumborough Racesmade me wish that I could ask Dixon for some first-hand informationabout race-riding. But although he had once worked in a racing-stable,he'd never had an opportunity of riding in a race. And I was shy ofasking him questions which would expose my ignorance of things which,for some reason, I supposed that I ought to have known; so I had to makethe best of such hints as he dropped me.

And then there was the difficulty of dress, a subject on which he neveroffered advice. Desperately in need of information, I asked myself whatI was to wear on my head. Stephen had worn some sort of cap last year,but the idea of buying a jockey-cap seemed somehow ludicrous. (Iremembered the old brown corduroy one I wore on my first day with theDumborough.)

On this particular afternoon I had shortened my stirrups by severalholes. I had observed, in some steeplechasing photographs in anillustrated paper, that the jockeys rode with their knees ever so muchhigher than mine. This experiment caused me to feel important andprofessional but less secure in the saddle. And when Cockbird made asudden swerve (quite needlessly alarmed by a blackbird that flew out ofthe hedge which we hugged so as to make the field as large as possible)I almost lost my balance; in fact I nearly fell off. Dixon said nothinguntil we were on our way home, and then he merely remarked that he'dnever believed in riding very short. "They always say that for apoint-to-point there's nothing like sticking to the old-fashionedhunting seat." I took the hint, which was a wise one.

Much depended on Cockbird; but much more depended on me. There weremoments when I felt acutely conscious of the absolute nullity of my pastas a race-rider. It wasn't easy to discuss the event when one waslimited by a tacit avowal that one had no idea what it would feel like.The void in my experience caused circumlocutions. My only authority wasStephen, whose well-known narrative of last year's race I wascontinually paraphrasing. The fact that the Ringwell country was so faraway from our own familiar hunts added to the anxious significance of myattempt. How could we--humble denizens of an inglorious unlimitedregion--hope to invade successfully the four-day-a-week immensity whichcontained the Colonel and his coveted Cup?

Such was the burden of my meditations while I lugged the garden rollerup and down the tennis lawn after tea, while the birds warbled andscolded among the laurels and arbutuses in the latening March twilightand Aunt Evelyn tinkled Handel's 'Harmonious Blacksmith' on the piano inthe drawing-room.

[III]

It will have been observed that, in the course of my career as asportsman, I was never able to believe that I could do a thing until Ihad done it. Whatever quality it was which caused this tentativeprogress toward proficiency, it gave intensity to everything that I did.I do not claim that it was unusual--this nervousness of mine about myfirst point-to-point race. On the contrary, I am sure that it was anormal and exemplary state of mind. Anyone who cares to do so is atliberty to make fun of the trepidations which a young man carries aboutwith him and conceals. But there is a risk in such ridicule. As Iremember and write, I grin, but not unkindly, at my distant and callowself and the absurdities which constitute his chronicle. To my mind theonly thing that matters is the resolve to do something. Middle-agedretrospection may decide that it wasn't worth doing; but the perceptionsof maturity are often sapless and restrictive; and "the thoughts ofyouth are long, long thoughts," even though they are only about buying aracing-cap.

A week before the Races I went to London and bought a cap with a juttingpeak; it was made of black silk, with strings that hung down on eachside until they had been tied in front. I had remarked, quite casually,to Stephen, that I supposed a top-hat was rather uncomfortable forracing, and he had advised me about the cap, telling me to be sure toget one which came well down over my ears, "for there's nothing thatlooks so unworkmanlike as to have a pair of red ears sticking out underyour cap." Whereupon he pulled one of mine, which, as he said, were bigenough to catch any wind there was.

I also bought a weight-cloth. The Heavy-Weight Racers had to carryfourteen stone, and after Dixon had weighed me and my hunting saddle onthe old weighing machine in the harness-room, we came to the conclusionthat, assuming our antiquated machine to be accurate, I should berequired to carry twelve pounds of lead.

"Thank heaven it wasn't thirteen," I thought, as I went into the stableto give Cockbird a few well-washed carrots.

He certainly was looking an absolute picture, though Dixon said he'dlike to get a shade more of the meat off him. As he nipped playfully atmy sleeve I marvelled at my good fortune in being the possessor of suchunparalleled perfection.

With an access of elation, I ran back to the house in a hailstorm. Thesun was out again by the time I was upstairs brushing my hair forluncheon. I got out my new cap and tried it on before the glass. ThenMiriam bumped into the room with a can of hot water, and as I hadn'ttime to snatch it off I stood there with the strings hanging down,looking, no doubt, a bit of a fool.

"Oh, sir, you did give me a turn!" she ejaculated, "I'd hardly haveknown you in that there jockey-cap!" She added that I'd be the death ofthem all before I'd done.

During luncheon Aunt Evelyn remarked that she did so hope it wouldn't bewet for the point-to-points. She had never seen one in her life, but shehad once been to Dumborough Races, which she considered dangerous.Fortunately for her peace of mind, she still visualized a point-to-pointas a sort of paper-chase, and I had said nothing to counteract thisnotion, although I did not want to minimize the grandeur of next week'sevents. Aunt Evelyn's intense love of horses made Cockbird the object ofan admiration which almost equalled my own. This, combined with herunshakeable faith in Dixon, gave her a comfortable feeling that I wasquite safe on Cockbird. But when Miriam, rather tactlessly, blurted out,"Mr. George hasn't half got a lovely jockey-cap!" she showed symptoms ofalarm.

"Oh, I do hope the jumps won't be very big!" she exclaimed. To which Ireplied, somewhat boastfully, that I meant to get over them whateverthey might be like.

"I'm going over to walk round the course with Stephen on Sunday. He saysit's a course that wants knowing," I said, helping myself to some moretapioca pudding.

Stephen had warned me that I shouldn't be able to stay at the Rectoryfor the Races, because his mother was already "in such a muck-sweatabout it" that the topic was never touched on in her presence. So Ibicycled to Dumbridge, took the slow train which explored Sussex onSunday mornings, got out at a wayside station, and then bicycled anotherseven miles to the course. (The seven-mile ride saved me from going onto Downfield and changing on to the branch line which went to thestation close by the course.) These exertions were no hardship at all onthat dusty spring day; had it been necessary, I would gladly havebicycled all the whole thirty miles from Butley and back again. Nothingin my life had ever appeared more imperative than that I should walkround that "three and a half miles of fair hunting country" and memorizeeach obstacle in the sequence. I wanted to carry home in my craniumevery inch of the land over which Cockbird would, I strenuously hoped,stride with his four legs.

In the meantime I had plenty to occupy my mind pleasantly as I pedalledseriously along the leafless lanes. I already knew that part of theRingwell country moderately well; I could identify most of the covertsby their names, and I ruminated affectionately on the rainy Februarydays when I had gone round and through them in a hot and flusteredgallop with the mud from the man in front of me flying past my head.Eagerly I recognized the hedges and heave-gates which I had jumped, andthe ruddy faces of the Ringwell sportsmen accompanied my meditations inamicable clusters.

Memories within memories; those red and black and brown coated ridersreturn to me now without any beckoning, bringing along with them thewintry smelling freshness of the woods and fields. And how could Iforget them, those evergreen country characters whom once I learnt toknow by heart, and to whom I have long since waved my last farewell (asthough at the end of a rattling good day). Sober-faced squires, withtheir civil greetings and knowing eyes for the run of a fox; thelandscape belonged to them and they to the homely landscape.Weather-beaten farmers, for whom the activities of the Hunt were genialinterludes in the stubborn succession of good or bad seasons out ofwhich they made a living on their low-lying clay or wind-swept downlandacres. These people were the pillars of the Hunt--the land-owners andthe farmers. The remainder were merely subscribers; and a rich-flavouredcollection of characters they were, although I only half-recognized themas such while I was with them.

There was loquacious old Mr. Dearborn; formerly a none too successfulstockbroker, and now a gentleman of leisure, who enjoyed himself on acouple of spavined screws which (he continually asserted) were worth atleast a couple of hundred apiece and as clever as cats, though he'dnever given more than thirty pounds for a horse, and rarely went as highas that; both of them, as Stephen said, looked lonely without a gigbehind them. Old Dearborn jabbered his way through the days, attachinghimself to one group of riders after another until a fox was found; atthe end of a good hunt he would always turn up again, puffing andblowing and purple in the face, but voluble with enthusiasm for the wayhis horse had got over "one of the ugliest places you ever saw in yourlife." However tedious he may have been, the Ringwell field wouldn'thave been the same without him.

Many an exuberant voice and lively countenance I could revive from thatvanished cavalcade. But I can't help thinking that the best man of themall was 'Gentleman George,' as we called him. George was a grey-hairedgroom; Mr. Clampton, his middle-aged master, was 'something in theCity'--a natty untalkative little man, who came out in queerly cutclothes and a low-crowned hat. Mr. Clampton kept three stout-heartedweight-carriers, but he seldom hunted more than one day a week. Georgeput in as many days as possible; he called it "keeping the guv'nor's'osses well in work." No day was too long and no fence too hairy forGeorge and the guv'nor's 'osses. At the most remote meets he would trotup--his fine-featured open face subdued to the decorum of servitude anda jolly twinkle for ever lurking in his keen eyes. (He was a man whocould condense more meaning into a single wink than most politicalspeakers can put into a peroration.) Always he had his free and easyhail for the hunt-servants (to whom he could generally give some usefulinformation during the day); for the gentry he reserved a respectful rapof his hat-brim and a sonorous "Mornin', sir." However curt hisutterances were, the tones of his voice seemed to imply the underlyingrichness and vigor of his vitality. He knew every inch of the countrybackwards, and the short-tailed grey who was his favorite had donefourteen seasons with those hounds since Mr. Clampton first bought himas a five-year-old from a farm in County Waterford.

The great joke about George was his method of acting as second horsemanwhen his worthy master was out hunting. This, of course, should havemeant that he kept as much as possible to the roads and handed the horseover to his employer as soon as the first horse had done as muchgalloping and jumping as was considered good for him. Not so George, whowas seldom more than two fields away from hounds however hard they ran.Times without number I have seen him come crashing through someblack-looking fence and then turn to shout back at the irresolute Mr.Clampton, "Shove 'im at it, sir; there's a big old ditch on thelanding-side!" And at the end of a gallop, when both horses were smokinghot, he would dismount with the utmost gravity and exchange horses withhis master, who had even been known to go home first, leaving hisprivileged retainer to knock holes in the fences in a late afternoonhunt.

In him I seem to be remembering all that was warm-hearted andexhilarating in my days with the Ringwell, for he showed a specialinterest in Stephen Colwood and myself, and was never so well-contentedas when he was showing us the way over an awkward place or giving us thebenefit of his ripe experience and intimate knowledge. There wassomething noble about him. And so (I choose to think) it was for'Gentleman George' that I kept the kindliest of my meditations as I wasbicycling to the point-to-point course.

* * * * * * *

It was peaceful and pleasant to be squatting on a gate and opening thepackage of sandwiches that Miriam had made me. The gate opened on to aboggy lane which ran through Crutchett's Wood--a well-known covert. ButCrutchett's Wood was beginning to look more idyllic than sporting now;it was dotted with primrose bunches, and the wild anemones werenumerous. Although I saw them with placid appreciation my uppermostthought was that the country was drying up nicely; deep going wasbelieved to be a disadvantage to Cockbird, who was supposed to possess aturn of speed which he would have more chance of showing if the groundwere dry.

The early afternoon was quiet and Sunday-like as I sat with half aham-sandwich in my hand; a saffron butterfly fluttered aimlessly alongthe hedge; miles away the grey-green barrier of the downs overlooked theinactive Weald, and I thought I'd rather like to be up there, by the oldwindmill on Ditchbury Beacon.

Discarding this unsportsmanlike notion I went on my way; half an hourlater my uncompanioned identity had been merged in my meeting withStephen and we were very deliberately inspecting the first few fences.There was a stake-and-bound hedge on a bank which we didn't much likethe look of. While we were still planted in front of it the cheery voiceof Arthur Brandwick hailed us with "That's a place where you'll have totake a pull at your old horse, Steve." With him was Nigel Croplady,wearing white gaiters and puffing a cigar; his somewhat superciliousrecognition of my existence made me feel that I had no business to bethere at all. Croplady was on the Point-to-Point Committee; he hadhelped to plan out the course and had supervised the making up andtrimming of the fences.

"I'm not at all sure we oughtn't to have made the course a bit stiffer,"he remarked.

Brandwick replied that he wouldn't be saying that if he were having abump round it himself.

Croplady expressed regret that he wasn't able to ride the horse he'dentered for the Heavy Weights. "That infernal knee of mine went groggyagain while I was playing golf on Thursday. But I've got 'Boots'Brownrigg to ride him for me, so he ought to be in the picture allright."

I gathered that 'Boots' Brownrigg was in the 'Blues' and had "ridden aclinking good finish at the Guards' Meeting at Hawthorn Hill the otherday."

Brandwick told us that he'd asked Roger Pomfret to ride his young horse."He's a mutton-fisted beggar; but the horse is a bit nappy, and youngRoger'll be the man to keep him going at his fences."

Every syllable they uttered made my own private aspirations morepreposterous and perishable: my optimism was at a very low ebb as weplodded across a wet pasture to the next obstacle, which had a wideditch on the take-off side.

"There's another place where there'll be trouble for somebody!"Brandwick's jolly voice seemed to be glorying in the prospect of horsesrefusing and riders shooting up their necks, or even over their ears. Heturned to me. "Let's see, you're running that nice-looking bay of yours,aren't you?"

I replied, "Yes, I'm having a ride."

Croplady became knowledgeable about the entries, which had long been asubject for speculation between Stephen and myself. "Quite a hot lot forthe Heavy Weights this year. Two of those Cavalry thrusters who keeptheir nags in Downfield. They're always rather an unknown quantity."

Stephen remarked that the Colonel's Cup was well worth winning, andCroplady agreed that it was a much better pot than the Light-Weight one,and must have cost the old boy five-and-twenty quid at least.

Silent and disheartened, I longed to be alone again; the presence of theother two made it impossible for me to talk naturally to Stephen, and Icouldn't help feeling that they regarded me as an entry which could beruled out of all serious consideration. The whole affair had becomebleakly detached from my previous conception of it. I was just agreenhorn. What chance had I got against Brownrigg of the 'Blues,' orthose ferociously efficient Cavalry officers? Bicycling back to thestation with only just time to catch the train, I visualized myselfrefusing the first fence and colliding with Roger Pomfret, who wasassociated in my memory with all my most timorous experiments with theDumborough.

Aunt Evelyn found me an uncommunicative companion that evening; and itwasn't easy to talk to Dixon about the course when I went to the stablenext morning. "I hear there's a very hot lot entered for the HeavyWeights," I said, as I watched him polishing away at Cockbird's glossycoat. My tone was, perhaps, a shade extenuatory. I couldn't bring myselfto speak of Brownrigg of the 'Blues.'

Dixon straightened himself and passed his hand along Cockbird's back."Don't you worry about that. I'll bet our horse gives some of 'em ashaking up!" he replied.

Cockbird gave a playful hoist of his hind quarters and then snatched amouthful of hay from his rack. I wished that the confidence of myconfederates was a little more infectious.

[IV]

The races were to be on Wednesday. After exercising our minds on theproblem how best to convey Cockbird to the course by two o'clock on thatafternoon, we decided against his spending the previous night inDownfield. I suggested that he would probably sleep better in his ownstable, which struck me at the time as being improperly expressed,though it was necessary that he should lie down and shut his eyes likeeverybody else who has something important to do next day. In thisconnection I should like to mention an odd fact, which is that when Idream about horses, as I often do, they usually talk like human beings,although the things they say, as in most dreams, are only confusedfantasias on ordinary speech.

Anyhow, it was arranged that Dixon should ride Cockbird to Dumbridge onWednesday morning, box him to Downfield, put him up at Whatman's'Hunting and Livery Stables' for two or three hours, and then jog himquietly out to the course, which was about four miles from Downfield. Inthe meantime I was to ride Harkaway to Dumbridge (I felt that this ridewould be better for me than if I drove in the dog-cart), catch a latertrain, and find my way out to the course as best I could. The bagholding my coat, boots, cap, spurs, and weight-cloth would go by thecarrier. (I mention these details because they did seem so vastlyimportant at the time.)

Cockbird's night's rest was, I imagine, normal, and it didn't occur tome to speculate about Dixon's. My own slumbers were what I should thenhave considered inadequate; that is to say, I lay awake for a couple ofhours and then slept like a top until Miriam called me at eight.

I came down to breakfast reticent and self-conscious. Patient Miriam'sanxiety that I should eat a good breakfast wasn't well received, andAunt Evelyn's forced cheerfulness made me feel as if I were going to behanged in the afternoon. She had never made any reference to thepossibility of her going to see the Races. I have no doubt that she wasas sensitive to the precarious outcome of the adventure as I was. For methe whole day, until my race started, was pervaded by the sinkingsensation which is commonly called being in a blue funk. But when thestable-boy (his face clearly showing his awareness that he was at closequarters with momentous happenings) had led Harkaway out of the stable,and I had mounted and was trotting through the village, I was consciousof being as fit as I'd ever been in my life, and of being in some wayharmonious with the mild, half-clouded April morning which contained me.

The morning tasted good; but it had only one meaning: it was the morningof the point-to-points. To have understood the gusto of that physicalexperience would have been to destroy the illusion which we call youthand immaturity--that unforeseeing actuality which retrospection cantransmute into a lucid and orderly emotion. The April morning, as I seeit now, symbolized a stage which I had then reached in my earthlypilgrimage.

But whatever "bright shoots of everlastingness" my body may have felt,my ordinary mind manifested itself only by instructing me to feel in mycoat pocket for the half-sheet of notepaper on which I had written "Thisis to certify that Mr. G. Sherston's bay gelding Cockbird has beenfairly and regularly hunted with the Ringwell Hounds;" to which theM.F.H. had appended his signature, adding the figures of the currenthunting season, which I had carelessly omitted. This document had to beshown at the scales, although when I actually got there the Clerk of theScales forgot to ask me for it. When I was making sure that it was stillin my pocket I was still under the misapprehension that unless I couldproduce it in the weighing tent I should be disqualified from riding inmy race.

In the middle of the village I met John Homeward and his van. He wassetting out on his monotonous expedition to the county town, and Istopped for a few words with him. His benevolent bearded face made mefeel more confident, and so did his gruff voice when he took a stumpyclay pipe out of his mouth to wish me luck.

"I've asked Tom to put half a crown on for me," he said; "it'll be agreat day for Butley if you win!" His blunt nod, as I left him sittingunder the shadow of his hooded van, was a send-off which stiffened myfaltering ambition to prove myself worthy of being the owner ofCockbird.

Remembering how I'd bicycled off to the Ringwell Meeting twelve monthsbefore, I thought how flabbergasted I should have been if I'd been toldthat I should be riding in a race there next year. And in spite of thatpersistent sinking sensation, I was thankful that, at any rate, I hadgot as far as 'having a bump round.' For whatever might happen, I wasmuch superior to any of the spectators. Taking my cap off to two elderlyladies, the Miss Pattons, who passed me on their tricycles with bobs andsmiles, I wondered whether it was going to rain. Perhaps the sun cameout to show that it was going to be a fine afternoon. When I was on themain road I passed Joey, the lizard-faced stone-breaker, who looked upfrom his flint-hammering to salute me with a grin.

* * * * * * *

The sun was still shining when I got to the course; but it was now lesseasy to believe that I had engaged myself to contribute to theentertainment which was attracting such a crowd of cheerful countryfolk. I felt extraneous and forlorn. Everyone else seemed intent onhaving as good a time as possible on such a lovely afternoon. I had comebriskly out from Downfield on a two-horse charabanc which was waitingoutside the station. The journey cost half a crown. Several of my fellowpassengers were 'bookies' and their clerks, with their name-boards andgiant umbrellas; their jocosities accentuated the crudity of the impacton my mind made by the realistic atmosphere of racing. I did my best tofeel as much like a 'gentleman-rider' as I could, and to forget that Iwas making my first appearance in a race.

The air smelt of trodden turf as I lugged my bag (loaded with fourteenone-pound lead weights) into the dressing-room, which was in a farmbuilding under some elms on the crest of the rising ground whichoverlooked the sparsely flagged course. After dumping the bag in acorner of the dry-mud floored barn, I went out to look for Cockbird andDixon. They were nowhere to be seen, so I returned to the dressing-room,reminding myself that Dixon had said he wouldn't bring 'our horse' outthere any earlier than he was obliged to, since it would only excitehim; I also realized that I should get 'rattled' myself unless I keptquiet and reserved my energies for three o'clock.

The first race was run at two, and mine was the third event on the card,so I bought that absorbing document and perched myself on an oldcorn-bin to peruse it. "Riders are requested to return theirnumber-cloths to the Clerk of the Scales immediately after each race."I had forgotten that number-cloths existed, so that was news to me."These Steeplechases are held subject to National Hunt Rules as tocorrupt and fraudulent practices." A moment's reflection convinced methat I need not worry about that admonition; it was sufficiently obviousthat I had a clean sheet under National Hunt Rules, though it flatteredme to feel that I was at last within their jurisdiction.

After these preliminaries I looked inside the card, at the entries. Goodheavens, there were fourteen in my race! Several of the names I didn'tknow. Captain Silcock's 'Crumpet.' Mr. F. Duckwith's 'Grasshopper.'Those must be the soldiers who hunted from Downfield. Mr. G. Bagwell's'Kilgrubbin III.' That might be--yes, of course it was--the fat littleman on the weedy chestnut, who was always refusing small timber outhunting. Not much danger from him as long as I kept well out of his wayat the first fence; and probably he, and several of the others, wouldn'tgo to the post after all. My own name looked nice.

A blue-jowled man in a yellow waistcoat hurried in, exclaiming, "Cananybody lend me a weight-cloth?" I glanced at my bag and resolved thatnothing would induce me to lend him mine (which had yet to receive itsbaptismal instalment of sweat). Several riders were now preparing forthe first race, but no one took any notice of me until ginger-hairedRoger Pomfret came in. He had been inspecting the fences, and he wipedhis fleshy red face with his sleeve as he sat down and started rummagingin his bag. Tentatively I asked him what he thought of the course. I wasquite glad to see someone I knew, though I'd have preferred to seesomeone else. He chucked me a surly nod, which he supplementedwith--"Course? I don't mind telling you, this something course wouldbreak the heart of a blank buffalo. It's nothing but twists and turns,and there isn't a something fence you could go fast at without riskingyour something neck, and a nice hope I've got on that blank sketchyjumper of Brandwick's!"

Before I could think of an answer his boon companion in blasphemy, BillJaggett, came in (embellished with a brown billycock hat and black andwhite check breeches). Jaggett began chaffing him about the somethingunhealthy ride he was going to have in the Heavy Weights. "I'll lay youa tenner to a fiver you don't get round without falling," he guffawed.Pomfret took the bet and called him a pimply faced bastard into thebargain.

I thought I might as well get dressed up: when I had pulled my boots onand was very deliberately tucking the straps in with a boot-hook,Stephen strolled in; he was already wearing his faded pink cap, and thesame elongated and anxious countenance which I'd seen a year ago. Nodoubt my own face matched his. When we'd reassured one another about thesuperlative fitness of our horses he asked if I'd had any lunch, and asI hadn't he produced a bar of chocolate and an orange, which I was gladto get. Stephen was always thoughtful of other people.

The shouts of the bookies were now loudening outside in the sunlight,and when I'd slipped on my raincoat we went out to see what we could ofthe Light-Weight Race.

The first two races were little more than the clamour and commotion of apassing procession. The 'Open Race' was the main excitement of theafternoon; it was run 'in colours,' and there were about a dozen dashingcompetitors, several of them well-known winners in such events.

But everything connected with this contest reached me as though from along way off, since I was half-stupefied by yawning nervousness. Theyappeared to be accomplishing something incredible by galloping round thecourse. I had got to do it myself in half an hour; and what was worse,Dixon was relying on me to put up a creditable performance. He evenexpected me to give the others 'a shaking-up.' Stephen had ceased to beany moral support at all; in spite of his success last year he wasnearly as nervous as I was, and when the field for the Open Race hadfiled out of the hurdle-guarded enclosure, which did duty as thepaddock, he disappeared in the direction of Jerry and I was left to facethe future alone.

Also, as far as I knew, my horse hadn't yet arrived, and it was with anew species of alarm that I searched for him after I had seen the racestart; the Paddock and its environs now looked unfriendly and forsaken.

I discovered my confederates in a quiet corner under a hayrick. Theyseemed a discreet and unassuming pair, but Dixon greeted me with aninvigorative grin. "I kept him away from the course as long as I could,"he said confidentially; "he's as quiet as a sheep, but he knows whathe's here for; he's staled twice since we got here." He told me that Mr.Gaffikin was about and had been looking for me. "He says our horsestands a jolly good chance with the going as good as it is."

I said there was one place, in and out of a lane, where I'd have to becareful.

We then escorted Cockbird to the Paddock; by the time we were there andI'd fetched my weight-cloth, the Open Race was over and the spectatorswere trooping back again. Among them was Mr. Gaffikin, who hailed mecompanionably with "Hullo, old chap; jolly sporting of you to be havinga ride!" and thereafter took complete charge of me in a most consideratemanner, going with me to the weighing tent with the weight-cloth overhis arm, while I, of course, carried my saddle.

The winner of the Open Race was weighing in when we arrived, and Istepped diffidently on to the machine immediately after his glorifiedand perspiring vacation of the seat. Mr. Gaffikin doled out a few leadsfor me to slip into the leather pouches on the dark blue cloth until Itipped the scale at fourteen stone. The Clerk of the Scales, anunsmiling person with a large sallow face--he was acorn-merchant--verified my name on the card and handed me mynumber-cloth and armlet; my number was seven: under less exactingconditions I might have wondered whether it was a lucky number, but Iwas pushed out of the way by Pomfret. Arthur Brandwick (in a greybowler) was at his elbow, talking nineteen to the dozen; I caught aglimpse of Stephen's serious face; Colonel Hesmon was with him, behavingexactly the same as last year, except that, having already 'given theboy the horse,' he could no longer say that he was going to do so if hewon the race.

While Dixon was putting the last testing touches to Cockbird's strapsand buckles, the little Colonel came across to assure me that if Jerrydidn't win there was no one he'd rather see first past the judge's wagonthan me. He added that he'd taken a lot of trouble in choosing theCup--"very nice goblet shape--got it from Stegman & Wilks--excellent oldfirm in the City." But his eye wandered away from Cockbird; hissympathies were evidently strongly implicated in Jerry, who was asunperturbed as if he were being put into a brougham to fetch someonefrom the station.

Near him, Nigel Croplady was fussing round his horse, with quite a crowdround him.

The terrific 'Boots' Brownrigg was puffing a cigarette with apparentunconcern; his black cap was well over his eyes and both hands wereplunged in the pockets of a short blue overcoat; from one of the pocketsprotruded a short cutting whip. His boots were perfection. Spare builtand middle sized, he looked absolutely undefeatable; and if he had anydoubts about his own abilities he concealed them well.

Stifling another yawn, I did my best to imitate his demeanour. Thebookies were bawling "Two to one bar one." Cockbird, stimulated bypublicity, now began to give himself the airs of a real restiveracehorse, chucking his head about, flattening his ears, and caperingsideways in a manner which caused the onlookers to skip hastily out ofrange of his heels.

"I say, that's a classy looking quad!" exclaimed a youth who appeared tohave purchased the Paddock. He consulted his card, and I overheard hiscompanion, as they turned away, saying something about "his jockeylooking a bit green." "We'd better back Nigel's horse. They say he'llwin for a cert."

For want of anything else to do at this critical moment I asked Dixonwhether he'd put Homeward's half-crown on. He said, "Yes, sir; Mr.Gaffikin's man has just done it for me, and I've got a bit on formyself. It's a good thing; they're laying five to one about him. Mr.Stephen's horse is at two's."

Mr. Gaffikin chimed in with "Mikado's a hot favorite. Two to one on,all along the line!" Mikado was Croplady's horse.

Mr. Gaffikin then tied the strings of my cap in a very tight bow; a belljangled and a stentorian voice shouted, "Now then, gentlemen, I'm goingdown to the post." The blue sky suddenly went white; my heart bumped; Ifelt dazed and breathless. Then Mr. Gaffikin's remote voice said, "Letme give you a leg-up, old chap"; I grabbed hold of the reins, lifted anawkward foot, and was lifted airily on the slippery saddle: Cockbirdgave one prance and then stood still; Dixon was holding him firmly bythe head. Pressing my knees into the saddle I overheard Mr. Gaffikin'sultimate advice. "Don't go in front unless you can help it; but keepwell with 'em." They both wished me luck and released me to my destiny.

I felt as if I'd never been on Cockbird's back before; everything aroundme appeared unreal and disconnected from all my previous experience. AsI followed Stephen out of the Paddock in a sort of equestrian trance, Icaught sight of his father's face, pale and fixed in its most strenuousexpression; his eyes followed his son, on whose departure he was toointent to be able to take in anyone else. We filed through a gate undersome trees: 'Gentleman George' was standing by the gate; he stared up atme as I passed. "That's the 'oss for my money," was all that he said,but his measured tone somehow brought me to my senses, and I was able tolook about me when we got down to the starting place.

But even then I was much more a passenger than a resolute rider with hiswits about him to 'pinch' a good start. There were seven others. I keptclose to Stephen. We lined up uneasily; while the starter (on his dumpygrey cob) was instructing us to keep the red flags on the right and thewhite flags on the left (which we already knew) I noticed Pomfret, (on awell-bred, excitable brown) and Brownrigg (Croplady's bright chestnutlooking very compact) already stealing forward on the side furthest fromhim.

When he said "Go" I went with the others, albeit with no sense ofinitiative. The galloping hoofs sounded strange. But Cockbird feltstrong under me and he flicked over the first fence with level andunbroken stride; he was such a big jumper and so quick over his fencesthat I had to pull him back after each one in order to keep level withJerry, who was going his best pace all the way. One of the soldiers (ina top-hat) was making the running with Brownrigg and Pomfret closebehind him. At the awkward fifth fence (the one on a bank) Pomfret'shorse jumped sideways and blundered as he landed; this caused Pomfret toaddress him in uncomplimentary language, and at the next obstacle(another awkward one) he ran out to the left, taking one of the soldierswith him. This, to my intense relief, was the last I saw of him. I tookit at a place where a hole had been knocked in it in the previous races.The next thing I remember was the brook, which had seemed wide andintimidating when I was on foot and had now attracted a small gatheringof spectators. But water-jumps are deceptive things and Cockbird shotover this one beautifully: (Stephen told me afterwards that he'd "neverseen a horse throw such an enormous leap"). We went on up a long slopeof firm pasture-land, and I now became aware of my responsibility; myarms were aching and my fingers were numb and I found it increasinglydifficult to avoid taking the lead, for after jumping a couple morefences and crossing a field of light ploughland we soared over a hedgewith a big drop and began to go down the other side of the hill. Jerrywas outpaced and I was level with Mikado and the Cavalry soldier who hadbeen cutting out the work. As Stephen dropped behind he said, "Go on,George; you've got 'em stone-cold."

We were now more than three parts of the way round, and there was asharp turn left-handed where we entered on the last half-mile of thecourse. I lost several lengths here by taking a wide sweep round thewhite flag, which Brownrigg almost touched with his left boot. At thenext fence the soldier went head over heels, so it was just as well forme that I was a few lengths behind him. He and his horse were stillrolling about on the ground when I landed well clear of them. Brownrigglooked round and then went steadily on across a level and rather wetfield which compelled me to take my last pull at Cockbird. Getting on tobetter ground, I remembered Mr. Gaffikin's advice, and let my horse goafter him. When I had drawn up to him it was obvious that Cockbird andMikado were the only ones left in it. I was alone with the formidableBrownrigg. The difference between us was that he was quiteself-contained and I was palpitating with excitement.

We were side by side: approaching the fourth fence from the finish hehit his horse and went ahead; this caused Cockbird to quicken his paceand make his first mistake in the race by going too fast at the fence.He hit it hard and pecked badly; Brownrigg, of course, had steadiedMikado for the jump after the quite legitimate little piece of strategywhich so nearly caused me to 'come unstuck.' Nearly, but not quite. Forafter my arrival at Cockbird's ears his recovery tipped me half-way backagain and he cantered on across the next field with me clinging roundhis neck. At one moment I was almost in front of his chest. I said tomyself, "I won't fall off," as I gradually worked my way back into thesaddle. My horse was honestly following Mikado, and my fate depended onwhether I could get into the saddle before we arrived at the next fence.This I just succeeded in doing, and we got over somehow. I then regainedmy stirrups and set off in urgent pursuit.

After that really remarkable recovery of mine, life became lyrical,beatified, ecstatic, or anything else you care to call it. To put ittersely, I just galloped past Brownrigg, sailed over the last twofences, and won by ten lengths. Stephen came in a bad third. I alsoremember seeing Roger Pomfret ride up to Jaggett in the Paddock andinform him in a most aggressive voice that he'd got to "something wellpay up and look pleasant."

Needless to say that Dixon's was the first face I was aware of; hiseager look and the way he said, "Well done," were beyond all doubt thequintessence of what my victory meant for me. All else was irrelevant atthat moment, even Stephen's unselfish exultation and Mr. Gaffikin'sloquacious enthusiasm. As for Cockbird, no words could ever express whatwe felt about him. He had become the equine equivalent of Divinity.

* * * * * * *

Excited as I was, an inward voice cautioned me to control my volubility.So when I had weighed in and returned with my saddle to find a clusterof knowing ones casting an eye over the winner, I just waited soberlyuntil Dixon had rubbed him down, mounted, and ridden serenely out ofsight. The Colonel was on the spot to congratulate me on my 'nailinggood performance' and, better still, to give Dixon his due for havinggot Cockbird so fit. Those few lofty minutes when he was making much ofhis horse were Dixon's reward for all the trouble he had taken sinceCockbird had been in his charge. He had needed no such incentive, but heasked for nothing more. While he was on his way back to Downfield he mayalso have thought to himself how he had made me into a good enough riderto have got round the course without a catastrophe. (He had yet to hearfull details of the race--including my peculiar acrobatics toward theend, which had been witnessed by no one except the rider of Mikado, whohad been kind enough to tell Croplady that he never saw such a thing inhis life, which was, I hoped, intended as a compliment.)

When I had watched Dixon's departure I found that public interest wasbeing focused on the Yeomanry Team-Race. I was glad to slip away bymyself: a few fields out in the country I relaxed my legs on afive-barred gate and contemplated my achievement with as much mentaldetachment as I could muster. Even in those days I had an instinct forgetting the full flavour of an experience. Perhaps I was fortunate innot yet having become aware that the winner of the last race isforgotten as soon as the next one starts.

Forty minutes later I had claimed my cup. (There was no ceremony ofpresentation.) Having crammed the ebony pedestal into my kit-bag I cameout into the Paddock with the cup in my other hand. It was convenient tocarry, for it had handles to it.

Good-natured Arthur Brandwick came up and offered me a lift back toDownfield. While he was patting me on the back I caught sight of afigure which seemed somehow familiar. A loose-built ruddy faced youngsportsman was talking to a couple of jovial whiskered farmers; he sat ona shooting-stick with his thin neatly gaitered legs straightened; abrown felt hat was tipped well over his blunt nose, for the five o'clocksun was glaring full in his eyes. I wondered who it was he reminded meof. Brandwick answered my unspoken question.

"D'you twig who that is?" I shook my head. "Well, take another good lookat him. It's our new Master, and a hell of a good lad he is, from allI've heard. Up till a month ago everyone thought the country'd have tobe hunted by a Committee next season. There was something fishy aboutevery one of the coves who'd applied for the Mastership. And then thischap wrote and offered to hunt the hounds himself and put up fifteenhundred a year if we guaranteed him another two thousand. Hardly a soulknew about it till to-day. We're lucky to get him. He's been hunting agood rough country in Ireland the last two seasons and showing raresport. He's run across for a couple of days to have a look at us." As wewalked away the new Master turned his head and favoured us with a slowand rather blank stare.

"What did you say his name was?" I asked, when we were out of earshot.Brandwick informed me that his name was Milden--Denis Milden--and I knewthat I'd known it all the time, though I hadn't set eyes on him since Iwas eleven years old.

Aquamarine and celestial were the shoals of sunset as I hacked pensivelyhome from Dumbridge. The Colonel's Cup clinked and joggled against mysaddle. Time was irrelevant. But I was back at Butley by eight o'clock,and Cockbird, who had returned by an earlier train, was safe and sound;a little uneasily he wandered around his loose-box, rustling the deepstraw, but always going back to the manger for another mouthful ofclover-hay. Dixon serenely digested triumph with his tea; presently hewould go out to the 'Rose and Crown' to hand Homeward his multipliedhalf-crown and overawe the gossips with his glory.

Absolved and acquiescent was the twilight as I went quietly across thelawn and in at the garden door to the drawing-room. Aunt Evelyn'sarm-chair scrooped on the beeswaxed floor as she pushed it back andstood up with her bottle of smelling-salts in her hand. For the firsttime since my success I really felt like a hero. And Miriam served thedinner with the tired face of a saint that seemed lit with foreknowledgeof her ultimate reward. But at that time I didn't know what her goodnessmeant.

At the end of our evening, when they had gone upstairs with my highlycoloured history of the day in their heads, I strolled out into thegarden; for quite a long time I stared at the friendly lights thattwinkled from the railway-station and along the dark Weald. I hadbrought something home with me as well as the Cup. There was this newidea of Denis Milden as Master. For I hadn't forgotten him, and mypersistent studying of Horse and Hound and The Hunting Directory hadkept me acquainted with his career as an amateur huntsman since he hadleft Oxford. A dog barked and a train went along the Weald... thelast train to London, I thought....

Going back to the drawing-room, I lit a pair of candles which made theirminiature gold reflections on the shining surface of the massive Cup. Icouldn't keep my eyes away from it. I looked round the shadowed room onwhich all my childhood and adolescence had converged, but everything ledback to the talisman; while I gazed and gazed on its lustre I said tomyself, aloud, "It can't be true that it's really there on the table!"The photograph of Watts's 'Love and Death' was there on the wall; but itmeant no more to me than the strangeness of the stars which I had seenwithout question, out in the quiet spring night. I was secure in a cosylittle universe of my own, and it had rewarded me with the Colonel'sCup. My last thought before I fell asleep was, "Next season I'll comeout in a pink coat."

Part Seven
Denis Milden as Master

[I]

All through an extra fine summer I often wondered how the new Master wasgetting on in the Ringwell country. But I was almost entirely ignorantof what a Master of Hounds does with himself between April andSeptember. I saw next to nothing of Stephen, who was at Aldershot,learning how to be a Special Reserve officer in the Royal FieldArtillery.

My own energies were mainly expended on club cricket matches. I managedto play in three or four matches every week; I was intent on keeping mybatting average up to twenty runs per innings, which I found far fromeasy, though I had one great afternoon when I compiled a century forButley against some very mediocre village bowling. Those long days ofdry weather and white figures moving to and fro on green grounds nowseem like an epitome of all that was peaceful in my past. Walking homeacross the fields from Butley, or driving back in the cool of theevening after a high-scoring game on the county ground at Dumbridge, Ideplored my own failure or gloated over one of my small successes; but Inever looked ahead, except when I thought about next winter's hunting.The horses were out at grass; and so, in a sense, was I.

Now and again I accompanied Aunt Evelyn to a garden party where, as arule, I competed in a putting tournament, which was a favorite mode ofentertainment at the time. Solemnly round someone's garden I putted,partnered, perhaps, by a major's wife or a clergyman's daughter. AtSquire Maundle's I won a magnifying glass, and on another occasion Icarried off a carriage-clock. Aunt Evelyn, who preferred croquet, wasextremely pleased, and my leisurely conquests among herbaceous bordersand yew hedges accentuated the unique pride I had in my racing Cup. Inan exciting match-play final on Captain Huxtable's mossy andevergreen-shaded lawn I just failed to capture an ivory paper-knife.

One week-end in July Stephen came to stay with us. Artillery life hadcaused no apparent change in him. We indulged in cheerful nostalgia forthe chase. After sniffing the trussed hay in the stable-barn, wecontemplated Cockbird and Harkaway in the paddock. We sighed for a nicemoist winter morning. Stephen was hoping to get 'attached' to someGunners who were conveniently stationed in the Ringwell country. Hecould tell me nothing about the new Master, except that he was alreadyreputed to be a tireless worker and very well liked by the farmers. Forhis benefit I unearthed my early impressions of Denis Milden as I hadseen him when he was staying at Dumborough Castle as a boy. AlreadyMilden was a very great man in our minds.

My memory of that summer returns like a bee that comes buzzing into aquiet room where the curtains are drawn on a blazing hot afternoon.

* * * * * * *

By the middle of September Dixon had got the horses up from grass.Cricket matches were out of season, but there hadn't been a spot of rainsince the end of June. Robins warbled plaintively in our apple orchard,and time hung rather heavy on my hands. The Weald and the wooded slopeswere blue misted on sultry afternoons when I was out for a ruminativeride on one of my indolent hunters. Hop-picking was over early that yearand the merry pickers had returned to the slums of London to the strainsof the concertina or accordion. I was contemplating an expedition to theWest End to order a short-skirted scarlet coat and two pairs of whitebreeches from Kipward & Son: Craxwell was to make me a pair of bootswith mahogany coloured tops. I intended to blossom out at the openingmeet as a full-fledged fox-hunter.

The autumn was a period of impatience. I longed for falling leaves andthe first of November. The luminous melancholy of the fine Septemberweather was a prelude rather than an elegy. I was only half in love withmists and mellow fruitfulness. I did not dread the dark winter as peopledo when they have lost their youth and live alone in some great city.Not wholly unconscious of the wistful splendor, but blind to itssignificance, I waited for cub-hunting to end. Europe was nothing but aname to me. I couldn't even bring myself to read about it in the dailypaper. I could, however, read about cubbing in the Midlands; it wasdescribed at some length every week in the columns of Horse and Hound.Any other interests I had are irrelevant to these memoirs, and were inany case subsidiary to my ambition as a sportsman.

Disapproving Mr. Pennett had left me severely alone since the previouswinter, and for the time being my income seemed adequate.

Toward the end of the month Stephen asked me to stay at the Rectory. Hehad escaped from Aldershot and was about to join his new brigade, whichwas quartered in the Ringwell country. Both his brothers were stillserving their country in foreign parts.

The first morning I was there we got up at four o'clock, fortifiedourselves with boiled eggs and cocoa, and set off on bicycles to acubbing meet about eight miles away. The ground was still as hard as abrick, and we had decided to save the horses' legs for later on and seewhat we could 'from our flat feet.' Cock-crowing dimness becamedaylight; the road was white and dry, but the air smelt of autumn. I sawMilden again, in the glinting rays of a quiet scarlet-orbed sunrise; hewas on a compact little roan horse; among his hounds outside somegryphoned lodge-gates he leant forward in diplomatic conference with acommunicative keeper. The 'field' consisted of a young lady with acockaded groom and a farmer on an unclipped and excited four-year-old. Afew more riders turned up later on when the hounds were chivvying aninexperienced cub up and down a wide belt of woodland. After the firstinvigorating chorus in the early morning air had evoked our enthusiasmthe day soon became sultry: pestered by gnats and flies we panted to andfro, and then followed the hunt to another big covert.

By ten o'clock we had both of us lost our early ardour; they had killeda cub and now a brace had gone to ground in a warren. Stephen told methat the Master was mad keen on digging out foxes, which in that andmany other parts of the country were too plentiful for good sport laterin the season. While cheering his hounds up and down the woods he hadseveral times passed us; but he was engrossed in his job and scarcelygave us a glance.

When we arrived at the rabbit-warren I could at first see nothing of himbut the back of his old mulberry coat; his head and shoulders were halfunderground; he had just put a terrier in and was listening intently formuffled subterranean barkings. Stephen got into conversation with Will,the first whip, who was an old friend of his, since he'd beensecond-whip under the previous huntsman (the ineffectual Ben Trotter). Ididn't dare to hope that Milden would remember me, but when hestraightened himself and swivelled a jolly red face in my direction Igazed at him with humble expectancy.

I drew his face blank; for his eyes travelled on toward the first whipand he exclaimed, with the temporary Irish brogue which he had acquiredwhile he was hunting the Kilcurran Hounds, "They're a tarrible long timebringing those spades, Will!"

Whereupon he picked up his heavy-thonged crop and whistled some bayingand inquisitive bitches away from the rabbit-hole, addressing them inthe unwriteable huntsman's lingo which they appeared to understand,judging by the way they looked up at him. "Trinket... good ole gal...here; Relic; Woeful; Bonnybell; get along bike there, Gamesome...good little Gamesome"--with affectionate interpolations, and anaside to Will that that Windgall was entering first-rate and had beenright up in front all the morning... "throwing your tongue a treat,weren't ye, little Windgall?" Windgall jumped up at him and flourishedher stern.

Soon afterwards the second-whip rode through the undergrowth encumberedwith spades, and they took their coats off in the dappling sunshine fora real good dig. The crunch of delving spades and the smell of sandysoil now mingled with the redolence of the perspiring pack, the crushedbracken that the horses were munching, and the pungent unmistakableodour of foxes. However inhumane its purpose, it was a kindly countryscene.

Well enough I remember that September morning, and how, when I offeredto take a turn with one of the spades, Denis Milden looked at me andsaid, "Haven't I seen ye somewhere before?" I answered shyly thatperhaps he'd seen me at the point-to-points. It seemed providential whenWill reminded him that I'd won the Hunt Heavy Weights. Milden casuallyremarked, "That must be a good horse of yours."

Emboldened by this, I asked whether by any chance he remembered meetingme out with the Dumborough nearly fourteen years before. But for thelife of him he couldn't recollect that. "Ye see I've seen such atarrible lot of new people since then!" he remarked cheerily, pushinghis blue velvet cap up from a heated brow. Nevertheless, I toiled backto the Rectory well satisfied with the way I'd managed to remind him ofmy undistinguished identity, and Stephen exulted with me that the newMaster was such an absolutely top-hole chap. "Not an atom of swank abouthim." It is quite possible that we may both of us have talked with aslight Irish accent when we were telling the attentive Rector all aboutit during luncheon.

[II]

October arrived; the drought broke with forty-eight hours' quiet rain;and Dixon had a field day with the new clipping machine, of which it isenough to say that the stable-boy turned a handle and Dixon did therest. He had decided to clip the horses' legs this season; the Ringwellwas a bad country for thorns, and these were, naturally less likely tobe overlooked on clipped legs, which also were more sightly and driedquicker than hairy ones.

"Only bad grooms let their horses get cracked heels," was one of hismaxims. "Only lazy grooms wash the mud off with water" went withoutsaying.

We often spoke about the new Master, who was already the sum andsubstance of my happy hunting-ground thirty miles away. Dixon rememberedhim distinctly; he had always considered him the pattern of what a younggentleman ought to be. Frequently I wished Aunt Evelyn's sedateestablishment could be transplanted into that well-foxed and unstagnantcounty. For one thing it was pretty poor fun for Dixon if I were to becontinually boxing Cockbird and Harkaway to Downfield or staying at theRectory; but Dixon seemed satisfied by the bare fact of my being ahunting man.

Resplendent in my new red coat, and almost too much admired by AuntEvelyn and Miriam, I went off to the opening meet by the early trainfrom Dumbridge to Downfield. Half an hour's ride took me to the kennels,where I joined an impressive concourse, mounted, in vehicles, and onfoot. The sun shone after a white frost, and everyone was anxious tohave a look at the new Master. My new coat was only a single spot ofcolour among many, but I felt a tremendous swell all the same. Familiarfaces greeted me, and when we trotted away to draw Pacey's Plantation,old Mr. Dearborn bumped along beside me in his faded red coat and blueand white spotted bird's-eye cravat. "This horse ought to have one ofyou young chaps on his back!" he exclaimed. "Jumps too big for an oldduffer like me; never known him put a foot wrong, clever as acat--(hold up, will you!)"... his clever hunter having trippedbadly on some stones.

He presented me to an affable person on the other side of him--Mr.Bellerby, of Cowslake Manor. Mr. Bellerby was mounted on a fidgety,ewe-necked, weak-middled, dun-coloured mare. He had a straggling sandybeard and was untidily dressed in new clothes which looked all wrong. Heseemed to have put them on in a hurry--baggy black coathalf-unbuttoned--spurs falling back from loose-fitting patent-leatherboots, starched stock with a horseshoe pin insecurely inserted--badlycut white corduroy breeches; and an absurdly long cane hunting-cropwithout a thong. He had a mackintosh coat rolled up and strapped on theback of his saddle. He wore moss-green worsted gloves, and his mare'sbridle had a browband of yellow and black striped patent-leather.

Mr. Dearborn remarked, when we lost sight of him in the crowd outsidethe covert, that he was a queer fish to look at, but a very warm man inMincing Lane. "Made a pile of money out in the East; just come to livein our country; built a billiard-room onto his house, I hear; sort ofman who might be good for a fifty pound subscription, fear he's nohorseman, however. That dun of his gallops like a train till she getsnear a fence, and then digs her toes in. I know all about her, for hebought her in the summer from a neighbour of mine. Pity he didn't ask myadvice. I'd have let him have this one for a hundred and twenty.Absolute patent-safety, this one; jump a house if you asked him to!"

Now it so happened that the new owner of Cowslake Manor provided theliveliest incident that I remember out of that day, which was 'badlyserved by scent' as the local scribe reported in the paper. A fox wasfound in Pacey's Plantation (it was hinted that he'd been put there byMr. Pacey, a hard-riding farmer who believed in showing the foot peoplesome fun on an opening day). The majority of the field hustled round theoutside of the covert, but I thought to be clever and went through by agrassy ride. A short distance in front of me galloped Mr. Bellerby; hishat bounced on his back, suspended by its string, and he was manifestlytravelling quicker than he had intended. Someone in front pushed throughthe gate out of the Plantation, and while we neared it the open gate wasslowly swinging back again. It was uncertain which would win, Mr.Bellerby or the gate. I stole past him on his near side, got there justin the nick of time, and retarded the gate with my left hand. Mr.Bellerby bolted through the aperture, narrowly avoiding the gatepostwith his right knee. It was an easily managed exploit on my part, sinceI had Cockbird well under control, and, as usual, he understood what wewere about every bit as well as his owner. Mr. Bellerby continued hisinvoluntary express journey across a ridge-and-furrow field, bore downon a weak hedge, swerved, shot half-way up his mare's neck, and came toa standstill while Cockbird was taking the fence in his stride.

After Mr. Pacey's fox had got into a drain half a mile further on, Mr.Bellerby reappeared and besieged me with his gratitude. He really didn'tknow how to thank me enough or how to congratulate me in adequate termson what he persisted in describing as my "magnificent feat ofhorsemanship." It was, he asserted, the most alarming experience he'dever had since he was run away with down a steep hill in a dog-cartyears ago in Surrey; he recalled his vivid emotions on that appallingoccasion. "Shall I jump out, I thought, or shall I remain where I am? Ijumped out! I shall never forget those awful moments!"

Embarrassed by his effusive acknowledgments I did my best to avoid himduring the rest of the day, but he was constantly attaching himself tome, and everybody who happened to be near us had to hear all about mymarvellous feat of horsemanship.

"Not a second to spare! I really think Mr. Sherston saved my life!" heejaculated to Sir John Ruddimore, a stolid and rather exclusivelandowner who followed the hounds very sedately with an elderlydaughter. The local big-wig listened politely to the story; but I felt afool, and was much relieved when I saw the back of Mr. Bellerby as hetit-tupped away to Cowslake Manor after pressing me to accept a cherootabout eight inches long out of a crocodile-skin case.

I returned to Butley without having exchanged a word with Milden.Whenever I saw him his face was expressionless and he seemed to beunaware of anything except his hounds and what they were doing. NigelCroplady, however, referred to him by his Christian name and led one tosuppose that he had been indispensable to him since he had taken thecountry. But Croplady, I am very much afraid, was just a little bit of asnob.

For several weeks Milden remained eminently unapproachable, although Idiligently went out with his hounds, enlarging my equestrian experienceby taking a full thirty-five bobs' worth out of Whatman's hard-leggedhirelings. My moneys-worth included several heavy falls on my hat, but Itook rather a pride in that, since my sole intention was to impress theMaster with my keenness. Up to Christmas the hounds showed very moderatesport; scent was bad, but I overheard a lot of grumbling (mainly fromunenterprising riders) about Milden being such a slow huntsman.Certainly he seemed in no hurry, but I was always quite satisfied,myself, as long as I had done plenty of jumping by the end of a day.

And our amateur huntsman, as I afterwards discovered, knew exactly whathe was doing. As soon as he took over the country he had asserted hisindependence by getting rid of the Ringwell dog-pack, on which themembers had always prided themselves so much. To the prudentprotestations of the Committee he replied bluntly that although thedog-hounds were all right to listen to in the woods, they were too slowfor words on the unenclosed downs, and too big and cloddy for thecramped and strongly fenced vale country. He added that Ben Trotter hadgot them into terrible bad habits and he wasn't going to waste his timeteaching them how to hunt.

Shortly afterwards he had bought five-and-twenty couple of unenteredbitches at Rugby Hound Sales; so that, when the Ringwell-bred puppiescame in from walk, he began the season with no less than thirty-sevencouple of unentered hounds. To those people who properly understoodhunting his patient methods must have been a welcome contrast to theharum-scarum, hoicking, horn-blowing 'which way'd 'e go?' performancesof the late huntsman.

Denis Milden refused to lift his hounds unless he was obliged to do so,and in this way he taught them to hunt on a catchy scent without lookingfor help. They learned to keep their noses down, and day after dayMilden watched them worrying out the barely workable line of a fox whowas half an hour ahead of them; he was deaf to the captious comments ofhis field and the loudly offered information of would-be helpers whoknew which way his fox had gone. The result of this procedure was thatafter Christmas, when scenting conditions improved, the light-bonedbitches began to hunt like blazes; in fact, as he said 'they fairlyscreamed along,' and of the two packs he really couldn't make up hismind which was the better--the big bitches or the little bitches. Whenthe big bitches had pushed an old dog-fox out of Basset Wood and killedhim after a fast fifty minutes with only one check, a six-mile pointover all the best of the Monday country, the little bitches went onebetter with a really beautiful hunt from one of the big gorse coverts onthe hills. The grumbling contingent now forgot that they'd ever uttereda word of criticism, and for the moment were unable to exercise theirgrumbling aptitude at all. But the real wiseacres, such as Sir JohnRuddimore and Fred Buzzaway, nodded conclusively to one another, asthough agreeing that it was only what they'd been expecting all thetime.

Fred Buzzaway, whose name has just cropped up casually, was a totallydifferent type of sportsman from that reticent local magnate Sir JohnRuddimore (of Rapworth Park). Always fond of a joke, Fred Buzzaway was ablue-jowled dog-faced bachelor, who habitually dressed as though it weregoing to be a pouring wet day. Bowler hat well down over his ears; darkwhipcord coat and serviceable brown breeches; tight and skimpy stock;such was his rig-out, wet or fine. I see him now, splashed with mud, hiscoat collar turned up, and his head bent against the driving rain. Hisboots were usually muddy owing to his laudable habit of getting off hishorse as often as possible to give it a rest, and during a slow hunt hewas often to be seen leading his mount and even running beside it. Hewas an active man on his feet, and when he wasn't riding to hounds hewas following a pack of foot-harriers. Stag-hunting he despised."Jackasses hunting a carted jackass," he called it. In his youthBuzzaway had been called to the Bar. His friends always said that whenhe got there he asked for a bottle of 'Bass' and never went back againafter he had discovered his mistake. From this it may be inferred thathe had a wholesome belief in good liquor.

"Beer goes well with beagling," he would remark, "but after a fox-hunt Ifeel the need for something stronger."

Few of my fox-hunting acquaintances seem to have been taciturn, butBuzzaway, I am inclined to think, outwent them all in consistentchattiness. He enjoyed airing his observations, which were shrewd andhomely. He was one of those men whose personal conviction as to whichway the hunted fox has gone is only equalled by their expert knowledge,at the end of a gallop, of the ground he went over. His intimacy withminor local topography was unsurpassed by anyone I knew. Even when hehad been out with some neighbouring pack, he could reel off the parishnames like clockwork. When asked what sort of a day he'd had, he wouldreply: "Found in Clackett's Copse, ran a couple of rings, and then outby Hogstye, over the old fosse-way, and into Warthole Wood, where hetried the main-earths and went on into Cuddleswood Park; along the Banksand into Hawk's Rough, back by the Banks into the Park, left-handed byWarthole Wood..." and so on, until one could almost have believedthat he'd been riding the fox himself instead of one of his low-pricedand persevering hunters.

As might be imagined, he was by no means difficult to get to know. Atfirst I was rather scared by the noises he made whenever I was anywherenear him: either he was hustling along close behind me, shouting "Forradon," or else he was cracking his whip at a straggling hound, or bawling"Hold up" to his horse at a jump, and I felt that I should be the nextone to get shouted at. But I soon discovered what a cheery customer hewas, and I became one of his best listeners. Needless to say, he was oneasy terms with the Master, and it was in his company that I made myfirst step toward knowing Milden well.

Buzzaway was one of the privileged (or pushful) people who weresometimes to be seen riding along a road beside the huntsman, althoughMilden's manner was abstracted and discouraging to conversation. Morethan once I had overtaken the hounds on their way to a meet, but I hadalways kept unobtrusively at the rear of the procession, which includedthree second-horsemen, one of them carrying a terrier in a bag. I was soshy that I scarcely ventured to say good-morning when I passed Milden atthe meet. But one day in the middle of December I stayed out to the veryend on one of Whatman's hirelings; as a rule I started back to Downfielda bit earlier, to catch my train, but it was getting dark early and thehounds had been running hard in the big woods all day, changing foxesseveral times. Milden was standing up in his stirrups and blowing hishorn; the first whip was counting the hounds with little wags of hiswhips as though conducting a string band. Buzzaway was taking a longpull at his flask, and everyone else had gone home. Will announced thatthey were all there except Purity.

"Blast that Purity!" muttered Milden, whereupon Purity emergedpenitently from the shades of the covert and the cavalcade moved offalong the lane.

So it came about that I found myself riding mutely along in the middleof the pack with Buzzaway and the Master. In front of us 'Toprail,' thehunting correspondent of the Southern Daily, wobbled along on hisbicycle and accumulated information from the second-whip, a melancholyyoung man named Bill Durrant, whose existence was made no merrier by thehorses he had to ride, especially the one he was on--a herring-guttedpiebald which, as he had been heard to complain, was "something croolover timber."

"Well, Master," remarked Buzzaway, "you were devilish unlucky when thatfresh fox got up in Cowleas Wood! I viewed your hunted fox going back toDanehurst Hatch, and he looked so beat I could almost have caught himmyself."

Milden tucked his horn into the case on his saddle. "Beat, was he? We'llcatch him next time, never you fear. And we'll hunt you when we getshort of foxes. I'll be bound you'd leave a good smell behind you!"

Buzzaway grinned with as much pleasure as if he'd been paid the mostgraceful of compliments. Jabber, jabber, jabber went his tongue,undiscouraged by the inadequate response it met with. And consideringthe amount of shouting he'd done during the day, it wasn't to bewondered at that Milden was somewhat silent and preferred to munch alarge brown biscuit which he produced from his pocket in a twist ofpaper. Later on, however, he turned to me and asked if I'd got far togo. When he heard that I lived thirty miles away in the next county hesaid I "must be desperate keen, to come all that way," and my heartglowed with gratitude. But this was nothing compared with what I feltwhen he continued, "I tell you what, I can put you up at the Kennels anytime you like, when you're having a day with us. It's terrible quietthere of an evening, and I'd be glad of someone to talk to. Just drop mea card the day before, and bring your horse as well if you like; or youcan find your way out from Downfield somehow if you're on one ofWhatman's screws." He tickled my hireling's neck with the end of hiscrop. "They earn their keep all right, don't they? That poor old sod wasout the day before yesterday, I know, for some silly blighter from thebarracks landed slap in the middle of my hounds on him. I wish some ofthose soldiers weren't quite so mad on jumping. It's the only thing theycome out for!"

We got to Clumpton crossroads and he said good-night. Buzzaway and Itrotted briskly on toward Downfield in a drizzle of rain. I couldscarcely believe that I had been invited to stay at the Kennels, and Ilistened absent-mindedly to my companion's account of a day he'd hadwith the Cotswold last season when staying with his brother. OrdinarilyI should have found this interesting, but the only information Igathered was that though the Cotswold was a niceish country for watchinghounds work, the Ringwell needed brains as well as boldness and he askedfor nothing better. I then parted from him and clattered into Whatman'scobbled yard.

[III]

It was close on Christmas, but the weather remained mild, and in thefollowing week I wrote a concise letter offering myself as a guest atRingwell after Wednesday's hunting--the meet being only a few miles fromthe Kennels. At home I said not a word about my sudden elevation in thesporting world, and I allowed Aunt Evelyn to take it for granted that Iwas going to Hoadley Rectory. After I had actually been to the Kennels Icould talk about it, but not before. It was too important an event forcasual conversation, and even Dixon was kept in the dark about it. AuntEvelyn had shown the right amount of interest in Denis Milden,remembering him as such a nice-looking boy, and remembering also how shehad come across his people in Northamptonshire when she was a girl--awell-known sporting family who had a large place near, she thought,Daventry. I sometimes wished that my own family was like that, for thearchitecture of my existence seemed meagre, and I wanted to be stronglyconnected with the hunting organism which at that time I thought of asthe only one worth belonging to. And it was (though a limited one) aclearly defined world, which is an idea that most of us cling to, unlesswe happen to be transcendental thinkers.

Staying at the Kennels was the most significant occasion my little worldcould offer me, and in order that he might share my sublunaryadvancement I took Cockbird with me. In reply to my reserved little noteI received a cheery letter from Denis: he would be delighted to see meand gave detailed instructions about my bag being called for and takenout to the Kennels from Downfield. He told me to be sure to bring a rugfor my horse as he was "terrible short of clothing." My belongings wereto be conveyed to the Kennels on the 'flesh-cart,' which would be inDownfield that day. I was surprised that he should take so much trouble,for I had yet to learn how methodical and thorough he was in everythingwhich he undertook.

I remember nothing of that day's hunting; but the usual terse entry inmy diary perpetuates the fact that the meet was at 'The Barley Mow,'"Found in Pilton Shaw and Crumpton Osiers, but did little with either asscent was rotten. Weather very wet in afternoon; had quite a good huntof nearly two hours from Trodger's Wood; hounds were stopped in BassetWood at 4.25." The concluding words, "Stayed at the Kennels," now seem avery bleak condensation of the event. But it did not occur to me that mysporting experiences would ever be called upon to provide material for abook, and I should have been much astonished if I could have forseen mypresent efforts to put the clock back (or rather the calendar) from 1928to 1911.

Yet I find it easy enough to recover a few minutes of that greysouth-westerly morning, with its horsemen hustling on in scatteredgroups, the December air alive with the excitement of the chase, and thedull green landscape seeming to respond to the rousing cheer of thehuntsman's voice when the hounds hit off the line again after a briefcheck. Away they stream, throwing up little splashes of water as theyrace across a half-flooded meadow. Cockbird flies a fence with a wateryditch on the take-off side. "How topping," I think, "to be alive andwell up in the hunt"; and I spurt along the sound turf of a green parkand past the front of a square pink Queen Anne house with blank windowsand smokeless chimneys, and a formal garden with lawns and clipped yewhedges sloping to a sunk fence. A stone statue stares at me, and Iwonder who lived there when the house was first built. "I am riding pastthe past," I think, never dreaming that I shall one day write thatmoment down on paper; never dreaming that I shall be clarifying andcondensing that chronicle of simple things through which I blundered sodiffidently.

But the day's hunting is ended, and I must watch myself jogging back tothe Kennels, soaked to the skin but quietly satisfied in my temporaryembodiment with the Hunt establishment; beneath a clean-swept sky, too,for the rain-clouds have gone on with the wind behind them. Soon we arepassing the village green; a quarter of a mile from the Kennels, DenisMilden blows a long wavering blast to warn the kennel-man and thehead-groom that we are almost home. When we turn in at a gate under sometrees there are men waiting with swinging stable-lanterns, which flickeron their red jerseys, outside the long range of portable loose-boxeswhich Denis has put up. He and his whips are quickly off their horsesand into the kennel-yard among the jostling hounds. He has told me tofind my way indoors and get my tea and a bath. Cockbird is led into aloose-box under the superior eye of Meeston, the head-groom, a gruff,uncommunicative man in a long, dirty white kennel-coat. Cockbird giveshis head a shake, glad to be rid of his bridle. Then he lowers it, and Ipull his ears for a while--an operation which most horses enjoy whenthey are tired. The place is pervaded by a smell of oatmeal and boiledhorseflesh, and the vociferations of the hounds accompany me as I treadstiffly through the darkness to a wicket-gate, and so to the front doorof the old wood-built huntsman's house--'the wooden hutch,' as we usedto call it.

* * * * * * *

Welcomed by barks from an elderly Aberdeen and a slim white fox-terrierwith a black head, I followed an expressionless young man-servant up thenarrow staircase to my room, which was furnished with the bleakestnecessities. The house creaked in the wind, and the geyser in thebathroom seemed likely to blow up at any moment. I was downstairs againand had finished my tea before Denis came in from the kennels. Howeverlate and wet he returned, he always saw his hounds fed, and it wasusually about an hour before he was inside the house. No professionalhuntsman ever worked harder than he did, and he invariably rode to themeet and home again with his hounds.

Sitting in the poky little living-room on the ground floor, I wassurrounded by all his significant personal belongings. There were a fewphotographs, mostly in silver frames, of his contemporaries at Eton andOxford, all in hunting or racing clothes; the walls were hung withmonotonously executed portraits of horses which he had owned, and therewas one large group of four hounds which had won a first prize atPeterborough Hound Show. There was also a coloured drawing of himselfwinning a University Steeplechase. A few standard sporting books(including Lindsay Gordon's poems and the leather-backed volumes of theFoxhound Kennel Stud-Book) filled a small bookcase. The letters andpapers on his writing-table were very tidily arranged. On the sideboardwere racing-cups and a huge silver tray "presented by the members of theKilcurran Hunt as a testimony of their appreciation of the sport he hadshown them during his Mastership." There were several foxes' masks amongthe pictures, with place and date of death in small white lettering: oneor two brushes were tucked behind picture frames, and a fox's pad wasmounted as the handle of a paper-knife. Finally (and there was only justenough room for it) an upright piano with a pianola apparatus attachedto it, demonstrated that he was fond of a bit of music. A record ofDvorak's 'New World' Symphony appeared to be his only link with Europe.But he had the advantage of me as regards foreign travel, since he hadonce been to Budapest to play in a polo tournament. (He told me this atdinner, when we were saying how superior the English were to allforeigners.)

It was after half-past six when he came in. He seemed to take me forgranted already, but he assured me once again that he was "terriblepleased to have someone to talk to." He threw off his wet hunting-coatand slipped into a ragged tweed jacket which the silent servant Henryheld out for him. As soon as he had swallowed a cup of tea he lit hispipe and sat down at his writing-table to open a pile of letters. Hehanded me one, with a grimy envelope addressed to "Mr. Milden, The DogKennels, Ringwell." The writer complained that a fox had been the nightbefore and killed three more of his pullets, and unless he could bringthe dogs there soon there wouldn't be one left and they'd really have tostart shooting the foxes, and respectfully begging to state that he wasowed fifteen shillings by the Hunt for compensation. Many of Denis'sletters were complaints from poultry keepers or from small farmers whoseseeds or sown ground had been ridden over when the land was wet. I askedwhat he did with these, and he replied that he sent them on to oldMcCosh, the Hunt secretary. "But when they look like being troublesome Igo over and talk to them myself."

I found afterwards that he had a great gift for pacifying such people,to whom the Hunt might have been an unmitigated nuisance if it hadn'tbeen an accepted institution. The non-hunting farmers liked to see theHunt, but they disliked the marks it left on their land. The wholeconcern depended on the popularity and efficiency of the Master, and thebehaviour of the people who hunted. Denis Milden's predecessor in theMastership had been too lavish with indiscriminate five-pound notes;consequently the petitioners for compensation had begun to regard thePoultry and Damage Fund as a regular friend in need, and complaints frompoultry farmers were far too frequent. To hear Denis talk about them onemight have thought that hens were the enemies of society instead ofbeing the providers of that universally respected object, the egg.

Watching him open those letters was an important step in my sportingeducation. Until then I had not begun to realize how much there was tobe done apart from the actual chivvying of the foxes. Thenceforward Ibecame increasingly aware that a successful day's hunting was the resultof elaborate and tactful preparations, and I ceased to look upon anangry farmer with a pitchfork as something to be laughed at. In themeantime I wished he would go upstairs and change his wet clothes. Buthe sat there in his muddy boots for almost an hour, writing letters inhis careful calligraphy and filling in his diary--a log-book of detailssuch as which horses had been out, where foxes had been found, and soon.

It was eight-thirty by the time he'd had his bath and was shouting fromthe top of the stairs to Mrs. Timson, the buxom grey-haired cook, "Mrs.Timson! Tell Henry to put that dinner on."

When that dinner had been put on and eaten (there was a large joint ofbeef, I remember) he asked me to play some music. I treadled away at thepianola, while he dozed in a shabby arm-chair with Moll, thefox-terrier, on his knees, and a litter of newspapers at hiscarpet-slippered feet. I had ambled to the end of a musical comedyarrangement ('The Geisha' I think it was) and was bundling theperforated music-roll back again with reverse motion when he suddenlyheaved himself out of the chair, yawned, remarked that he'd giveanything to be able to play the piano properly, whistled to the dogs,and turned them out into the night for an airing. He then lit a coupleof candles, extinguished the unshaded oil-lamp, led the way upstairs,and hoped I'd sleep all right. All this sounds humdrum, but I have sincethen spent many a much duller evening with people who were under theimpression that they were talking brilliantly. I have never caredgreatly about highly sophisticated persons, although some of them mayseek to enlarge their intellectual experience by perusing my modestnarrative.

Lying awake that night I listened to the wind which was making queernoises round the flimsily constructed house. Once or twice there was anoutburst of hound music from the kennels. Through the thin partitionwall I could hear the grunts and snores of the stablemen, whosedormitory was next to the spare room. The blind on my window flapped. Ithought how different staying at Ringwell Kennels was from what I'dexpected. Yet it seemed exactly like what it ought to be. I wonderedwhether old Cockbird was asleep out in his loose-box. Thought what anodd character the head-groom looked, and how surprised Stephen would bewhen I told him all about my visit. Meditated on the difference betweenDenis hunting the hounds (unapproachable and with 'a face like a boot')and Denis indoors--homely and kind and easy to get on with; would hereally want me to come and stay with him again, I wondered. And then Ifell into so sound a sleep that the stablemen on the other side of thepartition wall failed to awake me when they got up at some unearthlyhour and went down the dark stairs with their clumping boots to begintheir work in the damp December morning.

[IV]

I must pass rather rapidly through the remainder of that season and theone which followed it. While Denis continued to show splendid sport, myown achievements included learning to identify the majority of thehounds by their names. This I did mainly while 'walking out' with themon non-hunting days. The road by the Kennels had wide green borders toit, and along these we used to loiter for an hour or two at a time; thefull-fed bitches, their coats sprinkled with sulphur, were continuallybeing spoken to by name, and in this way I silently acquiredinformation. I cannot say that I ever became anything of a judge oftheir shape and make, or that my knowledge has since proved profitable;but I knew Brightness from Brevity, Ramble from Roguery, and Waveletfrom Watercress, and this enabled me to show an intelligent interest andto share the Master's enthusiasm for his favourites: I could speciouslyagree that, although Tempest was a beautiful bitch to look at, she wasby no means what she might be when it came to hunting. Peerless, on theother hand, was worthy of her appellation, and frequently hit off theline when the others were at a loss to know which way their fox had goneacross a bit of cold ploughland.

My regular visits to the Kennels, and the facility with which I echoedthe Master's ideas and opinions, bolstered up my self-complacence andgave me a certain reflected importance among the members of the Hunt,which I should otherwise have lacked. I now wore the Hunt button and wasregarded as being 'in the know'; people like Colonel Hesmon and FredBuzzaway would ask me whether I could tell them where the meets werelikely to be the week after next. A few words of praise from Denis were,however, what I most wanted. Opportunities for earning his approval werenot numerous; but now and again, when he was on a sticky jumper and Ihappened to be with him in a run, he would shout "Go on, George."Probably there was a big brambly hedge to be got over, and I would cramat it, not caring whether I took a heavy fall so long as I had theprivilege of giving him a lead; the bigger the hole I made in the hedgethe better pleased he was. He was a strong and patient horseman, andsince the country was for the most part rough and 'trappy' and the goingdeep on the heavy clay soil, he rode very deliberately at the fences.While everyone else was fully occupied in keeping with the hounds atall, Denis never seemed to have half his mind on the horse he wasriding. His eyes were on the hounds, and he went over the country, as weused to say, 'as if it wasn't there.'

During January and February in his first season I had many good dayswith the Ringwell, riding anything I could hire or borrow when I hadn'tone of my own to bring out. Stephen hunted regularly from his barracks,and shared my appreciation of Denis. He was ready, he said, to knockanyone off his horse who uttered a word of criticism against thehuntsman. His main ambition in life being to hunt a pack of houndshimself, he appointed himself a sort of amateur second whipper-in, andhe was never so happy as when Denis asked him to watch the end of acovert or stop some hounds when they had divided and a few couple wereaway on the line of a second fox. Stephen called me a lucky old devil tobe staying at the Kennels so often. He liked soldiering well enough, butthe horses were his only real interest in life. The guns, he said, werenothing but a nuisance, and he, for one, had no wish to chuck shells atanyone.

During the month of March my movements were restricted by the CoalStrike. There were no trains, and I missed some of the best hunts of theseason. But I had a few days with the Dumborough and made myselfconspicuous by jumping every fence I could find.

Dixon, who had been rather out of it, now came in for the solemnities ofpreparing Cockbird for the point-to-points. I ran him in a few 'Open'races, but found that he couldn't go quite fast enough, though he jumpedfaultlessly and once finished third in a field of a dozen. Thanks to hisreliability I was beginning to have quite a high opinion of myself. TheRingwell Races were late in April that year. Denis rode his best horsein the Heavy Weights and beat me by three lengths. His victory seemed tome quite appropriate, and everyone wanted him to win. It had neveroccurred to me that I should finish in front of him. Good-natured Mr.Gaffikin was there again to give me a leg-up, and he praised me for myimproved handling of my horse. He assured me that if I'd won the Racetwo years running I should never have been able to get my hat onagain--a remark which appeared to cause him extreme satisfaction, for herepeated it more than once, with a lady-killing laugh. (The inferencewas that I should have suffered from 'a swelled head.')

I saw very little of Denis during that summer, which was a wet one, andbad for my batting average. Having made only fifteen runs in my lastseven innings I was glad enough to put away my cricket-bag, and by thesecond week in September I was back at the Kennels for a prolonged stay.There was a new lot of horses, and Denis, who badly needed someone totalk to, always had a spare one for me to ride.

* * * * * * *

Ringwell cubbing days are among my happiest memories. Those mornings nowreappear in my mind, lively and freshly painted by the sunshine of anautumn which made amends for the rainy weeks which had washed away thesummer. Four days a week we were up before daylight. I had heard thesnoring stable-hands roll out of bed with yawns and grumblings, and theywere out and about before the reticent Henry came into my room with acandle and a jug of warm water. (How Henry managed to get up was amystery.) Any old clothes were good enough for cubbing, and I was verysoon downstairs in the stuffy little living-room, where Denis had anapparatus for boiling eggs. While they were bubbling he put thecocoa-powder in the cups, two careful spoonfuls each, and not a grainmore. A third spoonful was unthinkable.

Not many minutes afterwards we were out by the range of loose-boxesunder the rustling trees, with quiet stars overhead and scarcely a hintof morning. In the kennels the two packs were baying at one another fromtheir separate yards, and as soon as Denis had got his horse from thegruff white-coated head-groom, a gate released the hounds--twenty-fiveor thirty couple of them, and all very much on their toes. Out theystreamed like a flood of water, throwing their tongues and spreadingaway in all directions with waving sterns, as though they had never beenout in the world before. Even then I used to feel the strangeness of thescene with its sharp exuberance of unkennelled energy. Will's heartyvoice and the crack of his whip stood out above the clamour andcommotion which surged around Denis and his horse. Then, without anyapparent lull or interruption, the whirlpool became a well-regulatedtorrent flowing through the gateway into the road, along which the soundof hoofs receded with a purposeful clip-clopping. Whereupon I hoistedmyself on to an unknown horse--usually an excited one--and set offhiggledy-piggledy along the road to catch them up. Sometimes we had asmany as twelve miles to go, but more often we were at the meet in lessthan an hour.

The mornings I remember most zestfully were those which took us up on tothe chalk downs. To watch the day breaking from purple to dazzling goldwhile we trotted up a deep-rutted lane; to inhale the early freshnesswhen we were on the sheep-cropped uplands; to stare back at the lowcountry with its cock-crowing farms and mist-coiled waterways; thus tobe riding out with a sense of spacious discovery--was it not somethingstolen from the lie-a-bed world and the luckless city workers--eventhough it ended in nothing more than the killing of a leash of fox-cubs?(for whom, to tell the truth, I felt an unconfessed sympathy). Up on thedowns in fine September weather sixteen years ago....

It is possible that even then, if I was on a well-behaved horse, I couldhalf forget why we were there, so pleasant was it to be alive and gazingaround me. But I would be dragged out of my day-dream by Denis when heshouted to me to wake up and get round to the far side of the covert;for on such hill days we often went straight to one of the big gorseswithout any formality of a meet. There were beech woods, too, in thefolds of the downs, and lovely they looked in the mellow sunshine, withsummer's foliage falling in ever-deepening drifts among their gnarledand mossy roots.

"What you want is a good, hard, short-legged horse well up to yourweight and able to get through the mud and do a long day," remarkedDenis one afternoon in October.

We had been out from seven till four, with a good long spell of diggingto finish up with. Having said this he settled himself in his chair, lithis pipe, and applied his mind to the Racing Intelligence in TheSportsman with an air of having settled the matter once and for all.The sort of horse he had described was the sort of horse everyone in theRingwell country wanted; but Denis was never afraid of uttering anhonest unvarnished exactitude.

I suggested that such a horse might cost more money than I couldconveniently afford.

"Put a fiver on Michaelmas Daisy for the Cambridgeshire. She's at 100 to8. I'm having a tenner on each way myself," he replied, without turninghis head.

Although I'd never had more than half a sovereign on a horse in my life;and that was only at point-to-points, I risked two pounds ten shillingseach way, and Michaelmas Daisy did it by half a length.

Soon afterwards Denis took me to see a dealer on the other side of thecountry, and there we found the very horse I wanted. The dealer (anamusing Irishman whose deportment I must for once decline to describe)was anxious to oblige the M.F.H. and knocked ten pounds off the price.'Sunny Jim' was mine for ninety pounds. He was a short-tailed corkylooking bay with a habit of grinding his teeth as he jogged along theroads. And that is really all I intend to say about him, except that hewas well worth the money and approved of by Dixon as a realold-fashioned sort. I could just manage fifty pounds out of my ownmoney, so my fortuitous forty pounds saved the situation. Harkaway wasnow transferred to Aunt Evelyn's dog-cart, where he conducted himselfwith dignity and decorum.

The opening meet, therefore, found me prosperous and complacent,exhibiting my new horse to the Rev. Colwood, Buzzaway, 'GentlemanGeorge,' and all the rest of my Ringwell friends, and successfullycompeting with Stephen and his brother officers from the barracks. But acouple of weeks before Christmas the continuity of things was abruptlyfractured by an event which caused a terrible to-do among the supportersof the Ringwell Hounds, myself included. Just as we had all settled downto a record-breaking season, the Master handed in his resignation. Alawn-meet at Rapworth Park was rendered positively funereal by theannouncement, and Mr. McCosh, the stolid purple-faced Hunt secretary,swallowed a stiff brandy and soda as if a posset of poison was the solesolution for the blow which had made him so huffy.

It had been a recognized fact that for Denis Milden the Ringwell countrywas only a stepping-stone to higher things. Nobody had hoped that hewould remain with a provincial hunt for ever. But this was sudden. Hehad sometimes talked to me about his prospects of getting a bettercountry, but he could be as dumb as a post when he had a motive forsilence, and he had given me no inkling of a change before the morningwhen he came down to breakfast with a letter in his hand and informed methat he'd been elected Master of the Packlestone. He said it withsatisfied sobriety, and I did my best to seem delighted. Now thePacklestone Hunt, as I knew well enough, was away up in the Midlands.And the Midlands, to put it mildly, were a long step from Butley. SoDenis, as I might have expected, was to be translated to a region whichI couldn't even visualize. It meant that he was going out of myexistence as completely as he had entered it. Every time I returned tothe Kennels I found greater difficulty in making my voice soundconvincing while I conjectured to him about the attractive qualities ofhis new country.

In the meantime, as if to tantalize the Ringwellites, the bitchesexcelled themselves. The only consolation was that he couldn't take themwith him. A new Master was secured, but no one felt much confidence inhim or the future. The less they knew about him the more they shooktheir heads over his inevitable fallibilities. Already it was rumouredthat he was the slowest amateur huntsman in England; and now he wasproposing to hunt the hounds himself two days a week.

When I discussed Denis Milden's departure with people out hunting theyoften assumed that I should be going with him. I replied guardedly thatI hadn't thought about it yet, although the truth was that I had thoughtof little else. I had to acclimatize myself to the disconsolate idea ofa Ringwell country where I should once again be reduced to the status ofa visiting nonentity. But one evening when Denis was unusually brightand communicative (after a good day in the nice bit of grass countryclose to the Kennels) he turned his blunt kindly face in my direction(he was at his writing-table with a lot of letters to answer), andremarked: "I'll have to get you up to Packlestone somehow. It's too sadfor words to think of leaving you behind!" When he said that I knew thathe intended me to go with him. And Denis had a habit of getting his ownway.

Part Eight
Migration to the Midlands

[I]

When Dixon arrived at the Packlestone Kennels in the middle of October,with my four hunters and a man under him, he was realizing an ambitionwhich must often have seemed unattainable. To break away from Butley fora season in a country which adjoined such notable names as the Quorn,the Pytchley, and Mr. Fernie's well might he have wondered how it hadbeen brought about! But there we were; and Aunt Evelyn had been left todrive through a lonely winter with Harkaway and the stable-boy--nownearly eighteen and promoted to the dignity of wearing Dixon's top-hatand blue livery coat.

From the moment when Denis had first suggested my going with him, I hadmade up my mind to do it. Nevertheless, the fact remained that Icouldn't afford it. I was putting myself in a false position in moreways than one: financially, because I should be spending my whole year'sincome in less than six months; and socially, because the people in thePacklestone Hunt quite naturally assumed that I was much better off thanI really was. I had discussed it all with Denis in April. Denis was goodat making fifteen shillings do the work of a pound, and he was fond oftalking about money. But when I divulged my exact income he gravelyadmitted that the pecuniary problem was no easy one to solve. He foundit a terrible tight fit himself; it had been costing him over twothousand a year out of his own pocket to hunt the Ringwell country, andthe Packlestone would be an even more expensive undertaking. When we hadworked it out on paper--so much a week for my own keep while living withhim in the huntsman's house, so much for keep of horses, so much for mytwo men's wages, and so on--the total came to more than ten pounds aweek. And I had to buy two more horses into the bargain; for, as hesaid, I couldn't have any fun with less than four, "and it absolutelydefeats me how you're going to get four days a week even then."

"I'll have one good season, anyhow, whatever happens afterwards!" Iexclaimed. All that I needed, at that juncture, was a miraculousdoubling of my income.

The mental condition of an active young man who asks nothing more oflife than twelve hundred a year and four days a week with thePacklestone is perhaps not easy to defend. It looks rather paltry onpaper. That, however, was my own mental position, and I saw nothingstrange in it, although I was well aware of the sort of things thefamily solicitor would be saying if he were permitted to cast his eyeover the half-sheet of paper on which Denis had figured out my probableexpenditure. Aunt Evelyn, however, cordially approved my project, andafter consultations with Stephen (who thought it a magnificent effort)and the delighted Dixon, I bought a couple of horses in April and May,and then settled down to a summer of strict economizing. Cricketmatches, at any rate, were an inexpensive occupation.

Of my new horses one was a bit of a gamble. He was a very good-lookingchestnut who 'roared like a bull.' He had the reputation of being awonderful performer, and I bought him, rather recklessly for forty-threeguineas, at the end of a sale at Tattersalls, after the horse I'd hopedto buy had gone for double the price I was able to bid for him. A vet.from the Ringwell country drew my attention to the handsome chestnut,assuring me that he'd heard from a safe quarter that he was a remarkablejumper. Throughout the summer Dixon and I contemplated him andspeculated on his problematical capabilities (which proved to be inaccordance with the information given me by the vet.).

My other new horse was the result of a chance ride in a point-to-point.He was a well-bred old horse, a great stayer, and a very bold jumper.After I had ridden him in two races, in both of which he finishedstrongly, though not fast enough to win, his owner offered to let mehave him for thirty pounds, admitting that he found him too much of ahandful out hunting. I was already aware that the old chestnut had avery hard mouth, but I took him gladly and he carried me well, and keptmy weight down by causing me considerable exertions by his impetuousbehaviour.

When Dixon brought the horses up from benighted Butley I had alreadybeen at Packlestone the best part of a month, riding Denis's horses outcub-hunting, getting to know my way about the country, and becomingacquainted with a few of the local characters, most of whom wereextremely civil to me on account of my close connection with their newMaster. I did my best to live up to my too conspicuous position, mainlyby saying as little as possible and looking as knowledgeable as I knewhow. My acclimatization to the new conditions was made easier by thefact that not many people came out cubbing before the middle of October.We clattered out in the misty mornings to disturb the important foxcoverts and the demesnes of influential personages in the Hunt, and Ilearned to recognize the new faces in more or less segregatedinstalments.

On one occasion we went to a place about twenty miles from the Kennels,had two days' routing up the cubs, and spent two nights in a largecountry house. The owner was away, probably at some German spa: thefurniture was draped in dustsheets, and I remember that we had ourdinner in a little housekeeper's room. To be there with Denis and hishounds gave me an agreeable feeling of having got into a modernizedSurtees novel (though there was little evidence of modernity in what wedid and saw). Less agreeable, I remember, was our sixteen-mile ride homeon a grilling September afternoon, with the famous Packlestonedog-hounds, who found the dust and heat rather more than they couldmanage after a long morning.

Life at the Kennels appeared to me almost perfect, especially when I wassitting with Denis in the little room in the huntsman's house anddiscussing the new country in all its aspects. My approach to thecountry had been uncritical and eagerly expectant. Once I was settledthere I saw it entirely through the eyes of Denis. If he found anythingamiss I at once assumed that I had already taken the imperfection intoaccount. For instance, several of the artificial gorse coverts, he said,were very thin; and no right-minded fox would remain in some of thesmall woods when once the leaves were off and the vegetation had dieddown. I shook my head and agreed that a lot of the coverts wantedlooking after. Several new gorse coverts ought to be planted in theFriday country, which was the best part for riding over. And then therewas the wire, which was deplorably prevalent in places, though wellmarked with red boards in the hedges. In the Kennels, too, there wasmuch to be attended to.

The Packlestone country was hunted four days a week. Its character wasvaried--cow-pastures and collieries being the extremes of good and bad.In some districts there were too many villages, and there were three orfour biggish industrial towns. This abundance of population seemed to mean intrusion, and I wished I could clear every mean modern dwelling outof the hunt. For the most part, however, it appeared to be a paradise ofjumpable fences, and compared with the well-wooded Ringwell region itwas a tip-top country. For the first time in my life I was able to sitdown and jump a dozen clean fences without pulling up. In fact, as Denissaid, it was a place where I could jump myself silly. Also it had thecharm of freshness, and I have always thought that a country becomesless enjoyable as one gets to know it better; in a strange country atwisting hunt seems like a straight one. But this is a truism whichapplies to many things in life besides riding to hounds.

Foxes were plentiful, except in parts of the Friday country; but therewas no shortage anywhere as regards rich-flavoured Surteesian figures.Coming, as I did, from afar, and knowing nothing of their antecedentsand more intimate aspects, I observed the Packlestone people withpeculiar vividness. I saw them as a little outdoor world of countrycharacters and I took them all for granted on their face value. Howprivileged and unperturbed they appeared--those dwellers in a sportingElysium! Half-conscious of the sense of security and stability whichthey inspired, I watched them and listened to them with a comfortablefeeling that here was something which no political upheaval couldinterrupt.

There was, however, one discordant element in life which I vaguelyreferred to as "those damned socialists who want to stop us hunting."Curiously enough, I didn't connect socialists with collieries, thoughthere had been a long coal strike eighteen months before. Socialists,for me, began and ended in Hyde Park, which was quite a harmless placefor them to function in. And I assured Denis that whatever thenewspapers might say, the Germans would never be allowed to attack us.Officers at the barracks were only an ornament; war had become animpossibility. I had sometimes thought with horror of countries wherethey had conscription and young men like myself were forced to serve twoyears in the army whether they liked it or not. Two years in the army! Ishould have been astonished if I'd been told that socialists opposedconscription as violently as many fox-hunting men supported theconvention of soldiering.

[II]

The Packlestone fox-hunters prided themselves on being hail fellow wellmet--quite a happy family, in fact--though a large one, for there werealways between a hundred and a hundred and fifty riders at a Mondaymeet. The Mondays, which were in the middle of the Hunt, attracted allthe regular fellows, whereas on Fridays there was a cutting andthrusting contingent from two adjoining hunts, and these people wererightly regarded as outsiders by the true-blue Packlestone residents.

During my October days new faces continually added themselves to thecovert-side crowd, and by the time when I began to ride my own horsesthe fields were fairly representative, and I very soon found myselfincluded in the friendliness for which the Hunt had a reputation, thoughit was some time before I could say that I felt at home, especially whenI was on my old chestnut, who fairly pulled my arms out.

On a bright morning late in October, composed though slightlyself-conscious on Cockbird's back outside Olton Gorse, I could lookaround me and identify the chief supporters of the Hunt. Prominent,owing to his official capacity, was the Field-Master, Bertie Hartby, akeen-faced man whose appointment by Denis had caused a certain amount ofcontroversy. It was said that Hartby was always in too much of a hurry,but there he was, anyhow, intent on doing his best to keep the field inorder.

Near him was a highly important personage, Captain Harry Hinnycraft, whofor a vast number of years had been Honorary Secretary of the Hunt.'Dear old Captain Harry,' as the young ladies called him (for on them hewas wont to turn an appreciative eye), was by no means an easy oldgentleman to please unless it suited him to be amiable. His unqualifiedapproval of the new Master was balanced by an unconcealed prejudiceagainst his Field-Master, who was, he asserted to all and sundry, "aswild as a hawk," varying this with "mad as a hatter." Compromise was aword of which Captain Hinnycraft had never mastered the meaning; massiveand white-moustached on his magnificent weight-carriers, he had alwaysridden about the Packlestone country with the air of a monarch. Hebelonged to the old school of country gentlemen, ruling his estate withsemi-benevolent tyranny and turning his back on all symptoms of socialinnovation. Under his domination the Packlestone country had been lookedafter on feudal system lines. His method of dealing with epistolarycomplaints from discontented farmers was to ignore them; in verbalintercourse he bullied them and sent them about their business with agood round oath. Such people, he firmly believed, were put there byProvidence to touch their hats and do as they were told by theirbetters. As might be expected, he had conventional eighteenth-centuryideas about what constituted masculine gallantry and sprightlyconversation. Captain Harry defied all criticism because he was acomplete anachronism. And as such he continued beyond his eightiethyear, until he fell into a fishpond on his estate and was buried by theparson whose existence he had spurned by his arrogance.

It may well be wondered how the Hunt had survived the despotism of thisold-world grandee, with whom previous Masters had been obliged toco-operate (as "best Master we've ever had" while they reigned, and"good riddance of bad rubbish" when they resigned and left him to findsomeone to replace them).

An explanation of the continued prosperity of the Packlestone waslargely to be found in Mrs. Oakfield of Thurrow Park, a lady who madefriends wherever she went. Since her childhood she had been intimatelyassociated with the Hunt, for her father had been Master for more thantwenty years. From her large and well-managed estate she set an exampleof up-to-date (though somewhat expensive) farm-management, and everyfarmer in the country (except a few stubborn Radicals) swore by Mrs.Oakfield as the feminine gender of a jolly good fellow. As a fine judgeof cattle and sheep they respected her; and to this was added herreputation for boundless generosity. The Packlestone farmers were proudto see Mrs. Oakfield riding over their land--as well they might be, forit was a sight worth going a long way to see. A fine figure of a womanshe was, they all agreed, as she sailed over the fences in her tall hatand perfectly fitting black habit with a bunch of violets in herbuttonhole. This brilliant horsewoman rode over the country in anapparently effortless manner: always in the first flight, she neverappeared to be competing for her prominent position; quick and dashing,she was never in a hurry; allowing for the fact that she was very wellmounted and knew the country by heart, she was undoubtedly a paragon ofnatural proficiency. John Leech would have drawn her with delight. Iadmired Mrs. Oakfield enormously; her quickness to hounds was arevelation to me, and in addition she was gracious and charming inmanner. Whether she bowed her acknowledgement to a lifted hat at themeet or cantered easily at an awkward bit of timber in an otherwiseunjumpable hedge, she possessed the secret of style. Needless to say,she was the only person in the Hunt who knew how to manage CaptainHarry, who always spoke of her as "a splendid little woman." Whichbrings me back to my original explanation as to how the behaviour ofthat intractable old gentleman failed to cause as much trouble as onemight have expected.

While Captain Hinnycraft lived and bulked big in the middle of theMonday country, all roads in the Wednesday district converged on Mrs.Oakfield at Thurrow Park. Fashionable Friday contained severalgood-sized estates and many important fox-preservers and staunchsupporters, but no predominant personage. Saturday, however, had itsunmistakable magnate in Sir Jocelyn Porteus-Porteous of Folesford Hall.The Saturday country was the least popular of the four divisions.Well-wooded, hilly, and sporadically blemished by collieries, it wasconsidered very sporting by those who lived in it. A Saturday hunt was ascrambling, cramped, hound-musical affair, much enjoyed by middle-agedenthusiasts on slow horses. A minor feature which I remember was anabundance of holly trees, which contributed a cosy old-fashionedChristmas atmosphere to my impression of Saturdays. Sunny Jim, myshort-tailed, short-backed, short-legged, clever performer, foundSaturdays much more to his liking than the other days, with their cutand laid fences, big ditches, and quick bursts across pasture andarable. I was very fond of Jim and I always gave him half of the applewhich I produced from my pocket early in the afternoon. He was an artfulold customer, and sometimes when he heard me munching my apple he wouldhalt and turn his head to receive his portion. He did this one day whenI was loitering with a slack rein along one of the spacious green rideswhich ventilated the Folesford home coverts. The august presence of SirJocelyn happened to be just behind me; his amusement at Sunny Jim'sintelligent behaviour is a lucky little stroke of reminiscence, for itis not easy to describe him without seeming a shade discourteous toPorteus-Porteous. (Note the majestic variation in spelling.)

No one could meet Sir Jocelyn and remain blind to the fact that he had apompous manner. And when he was in the middle of the park at Folesford,with its chain of woodlands and superabundance of foxes and pheasants,he seemed just a little larger than life-size. (He was pardonably proudof the concordant profusion of those sporting incompatibles, the fox andthe pheasant.) His ancestral seat (the Porteous family had sat theresince Plantagenet times) was, if I remember rightly, a Gothic nucleuswith Tudor and Jacobean additions. Unwelcome, from the picturesquelyfeudal point of view, were the rows of industrial habitations which hadcropped up outside his grandiose gateway. These, with the unsightlycolliery chimneys, were a lucrative element in his existence, since theyrepresented mineral royalties for the owner of the estate. Nevertheless,his attitude toward such plebian upstarts was lofty and impercipient:not having been introduced to them, he had not the pleasure of theiracquaintance, so to speak. Sir Jocelyn was a short, thickset,round-legged man with regular features and a moustache. It would beunfair to accuse him of looking complacent, for how could any man lookotherwise than comfortable and well satisfied when he had inherited suchan amply endowed existence? There was hauteur in his manner, but it wasnot unkindly, though it was accentuated by his unconscious habit ofpunctuating his utterances with regularly recurrent sniffs. In thisconnection I am unable to resist the temptation to reproduce a memorableremark which he once made to me out hunting.

That winter he gave a ball for the coming-out of his eldest daughter.(Mrs. Oakfield gave one in the same week--an intensely exciting week forthe graceful nymphs, dashing sparks, and diamonded dowagers of theHunt.)

"When did you last give a ball at Folesford, Sir Jocelyn?" I politelyasked him, gazing bashfully at one of his dangling top-boots.

"We have no record [sniff] of any ball at Folesford [sniff]," was hisrejoinder.

Why there had never been any balls at Folesford I am still at a loss tounderstand. But the fact remained. It was (sniff) so.... And SirJocelyn, as I have taken trouble to indicate, was the king of theSaturday country.

[III]

Anything like an adequate inventory of the Packlestone subscribers isbeyond the scope of my narrative--pleasant though it would be to reviveso many estimable and animated equestrians. Warm-hearted memory createsa crowded gathering when one has both the dead and the living to drawupon. I have no doubt that the Packlestone field (and its similitudeelsewhere) still survives in its main characteristics. Nevertheless, Iadhere protectively to my sense of its uniqueness as it was when I was aunit in its hurry of hoofs and covert-side chatter. I can believe in thepresent-day existence of intrepid young ladies, such as were the twoMiss Amingtons, who would have perished rather than see someone elsejump a big fence without having a cut at it themselves on their game andnot over-sound horses.

But are there still such veterans as those who went so well when I wasthere to watch them? Grey-bearded Squire Wingfield was over seventy, buthe took the fences as they came and held his own with many a would-bethruster forty years younger. And there were two or three contemporariesof his who got over the country in a way which I remember withastonishment. Compared with such anno domini defying old birds, jollyJudge Burgess (who came from London as often as his grave dutiespermitted) was a mere schoolboy. The Judge had returned to thehunting-field at the age of fifty, after thirty years' absence, and hehad evidently made up his mind to enjoy every minute of it as hebucketed along on a hollow-backed chestnut who, he affirmed, knew adashed sight more about hunting than his learned owner.

Regretfully I remember how incapable I was of appreciating many of theripe-flavoured characters whom I encountered with such regularity.Obvious enough was the newly rich manufacturer who lived in a gaudymulti-gabled mansion and asked me, "'Ow many 'orses do you reckon tokeep?" as he ambled along on a good-looking and confidential grey forwhich he had given a mint of money. Much more interesting, as I see himnow, was Mr. Jariott, an exquisitely polite silver-haired gentleman, wholived alone in a shallow-roofed white-faced house in a discreetlyundulating park. As owner of several good coverts, small and easy to getaway from, he was a punctilious preserver of foxes. It was said that heknew all his foxes by name, and mourned the loss when one of them waskilled. But he would have been horrified if his coverts had been drawnblank, and so far as I could hear, such a thing had never happened. Thecut of his clothes was soberly stylish and old-fashioned, and he was shyand sparing in his utterances. I was told that he bred a certain sort ofshooting-dog and knew more about that breed than any other man inEngland. I have an idea that the dogs were golden brown, silky haired,and elegant. I was only inside his house once, when the hounds metthere: the interior left an impression of being only half lived in; Iimagined Mr. Jariott as its attentive but lonely inhabitant, and thewindows looked vacantly out on the pleasant park from the box-likebuilding.

Not far from Mr. Jariott's house there was a strip of woodland namedLady Byron's Covert. Years afterwards I discovered that the poet hadlived at that house for a short time with that 'moral Clytemnestra,' hiswife, who remained there in her aggrieved seclusion long after hisdeparture to Italy. My knowledge of this seems to explain the impressionof haunting unhappiness which the house made on my mind. I should liketo know what old Mr. Jariott thought about it all.

Among the younger generation in the Packlestone Hunt the brothersPeppermore were far the most conspicuous, as they would have been in anysporting community. Jack and Charlie Peppermore were both undertwenty-five and had already broken most of their bones. They were wellknown as amateur race-riders. Jack, the younger of the two, was intemporary retirement from racing, for he had cracked his skull in ahurdle race at the end of the previous winter. This did not prevent himfrom hunting, and he was usually to be seen out on some borrowed horsewhich had proved itself completely beyond the control of its owner.Charlie was rather more particular about what he rode, and was,correspondingly, a more reticent character. These brothers did and saidpretty well what they pleased in the Packlestone Hunt; ungovernable astheir exploits often were, they were always forgiven, for they werebrilliant riders and had all the qualities which make a young manpopular in sporting circles. They were reckless, insolent, unprincipled,and aggressively competitive; but they were never dull, frequentlyamusing, and, when they chose, had charming manners. In fact, theydisarmed criticism, as do all people whom one cannot help admiring. Andthey were the last people in the world to expect excuses to be made forthem. To me, at that time, they were the epitome of a proficiency andprestige to which I could not even aspire. As I remember them now theywere desperately fine specimens of a genuine English traditional typewhich has become innocuous since the abolition of duelling. But if theywere to some extent survivals from a less civilized age, they were alsothe most remarkable light-weight sparks I had ever seen, and as theytreated me with amiable tolerance I considered myself fortunate inknowing them. Nor have I ever altered that opinion. For in theirpeculiar way the Peppermores were first-rate people, and I feltgenuinely sorry when I read in an evening paper, a year or two ago, thatCharlie Peppermore had fallen at the first fence in the Grand Nationalwhen riding the favorite.

To say that the brothers were competitive is to put it mildly. Wheneverit was a question of getting there first, they were absolute demons ofenergy, alertness, and pugnacious subtlety. In the hunting-field,however, they had little opposition to compete against, and in a fasthunt they were undefeatable. Denis Milden's arrival on the scene oftheir supremacy reminded them that they must look to their laurels; butDenis showed no awareness of the competitive spirit; his only purposewas to hunt the hounds, and the Peppermores very soon recognized thisand did all they could to help him. To have aroused their animositywould have been no joke. Once when I was at a race meeting I happened tobe standing beside Charlie Peppermore when an inferior amateur riderfell off, rather ignominiously, at a plain fence in front of theenclosure. The horse went on alone and the jockey scrambled to his feet,and as he walked past us on the other side of the rails CharliePeppermore laughed. It was the most insulting, contemptuous laugh I'dever heard. Then he turned to me and drawled, "How I hate that man! I'vebeen waiting years to see him break his neck."

Of the two, Denis liked Jack the best, and one Saturday in the middle ofNovember Jack was invited to dinner, with two other young sportsmen wholived not many miles away. This was an uncommon event at the Kennels,and Mrs. Timson rolled up her sleeves and prepared a more than usuallysolid repast. When we came in from hunting Denis got out two bottles ofchampagne and some full-bodied port. As a rule we drank water, and thequantity of champagne and port I had consumed in my whole life couldeasily have been contained in half a dozen bottles of each fluid.

"I'm afraid drink isn't too good for old Jack since that accident ofhis," remarked Denis, rubbing his forehead dubiously.

He then told the inscrutable Henry to 'get that dinner on at eighto'clock' and went upstairs to dress--the occasion demanding the specialeffort of a dinner jacket.

Jack arrived alone in his father's brougham--a means of conveyance whichseemed vaguely improbable. Peppermore senior had been a well-knownfigure on the Turf, and he still owned a few steeplechasers which hissons trained and rode. But he had become heavy and uncommunicative withmiddle age, and now devoted himself almost entirely to looking after hisfarms and house property (and putting the brake on his son'stransactions with bookmakers). Jack was the mainspring of the party, andhis drawling voice kept us all amused with a continuous flow of chaffand chatter. I wish I could remember a single word of it, but as I amunable to do so I can only say that I made one with the other guests incompliant appreciation while Denis was an attentive host, and thechampagne promoted conviviality in moderation.

After dinner we moved into the other room, which was even smaller. Adecanter of port quickly became empty, and a certain rowdiness began toshow itself among the company, though there was nothing to be rowdyabout and very little space to be rowdy in. When Henry brought in thereplenished decanter Jack picked up a small tumbler and filled it. Fromhis demeanour it appeared that the competitive spirit was assertingitself. A few minutes afterwards he threw a chair across the room andthe other young men felt it incumbent on them to imitate him. He thenrefilled his glass with port, standing in the middle of the room, drankit straight off, and collapsed on the floor. The little room wasoverheated by a roaring fire, and the air was heavy with cigar smoke.The other two guests were a bad colour, and I went to the front door toget a breath of the frosty air.

When I returned Denis was looking after the prostrate Jack; he was, Iremember, making a hissing sound, as if he were grooming a horse, and Ithought what a kind-hearted chap he was. He told me to go and orderJack's carriage. I went to the kitchen, and informed them in subduedtones that Mr. Peppermore was very drunk. The coachman grinned and wentout to put his horse in.

I then became aware that I was very drunk myself, and soon afterwardsDenis gently assisted me up the steep stairs to my room. I was glad,next morning, that I hadn't got to go out hunting. This was the firstoccasion on which I was authentically intoxicated.

[IV]

To give a detailed account of my doings during that winter would be todeviate from my design. It may be inferred, however, that I enjoyedmyself wholeheartedly and lived in total immunity from all intellectualeffort (a fact which may seem rather remarkable to those who recognize amodicum of mental ability in the writing of these memoirs). For morethan six months I perused nothing except newspapers; my pen was employedonly in a weekly scribble to Aunt Evelyn, and in copying out houndpedigrees for Denis, who had discovered that the Packlestone pedigreebooks had not been kept with quite that precision which was proper forsuch essential registers. In this manner I acquired an exact knowledgeof the ancestries of Vivian, Villager, Conquest, Cottager, and variousother eloquent veterans whose music had made the ploughman pause withattentive ear on many a copse-crowned upland.

Odd enough it seems now, that detached and limited segment of my humanexperience, when I was so completely identified with what I was doingand so oblivious to anything else. Coming in at the end of a long day, Iwould find Dixon giving the horses their evening feed, or brushing themud off the horse I had ridden in the morning. Dixon was entirely in hiselement now, and he had the intense satisfaction of going out as mysecond-horseman. Dignified and discreet he rode about with the othergrooms, catching an occasional glimpse of me as I popped over a fenceinto a lane or cantered across a field toward a covert. My broken-windedchestnut had turned out to be a wonderful hunter; I could trot him up toa high post-and-rails in absolute assurance that he would hop over itlike a deer, and on such occasions he made me look a much better riderthan I really was. In spite of all the hard work he had to get through,Dixon was permanently happy that winter. He was breathing the same airas the renowned Peppermores, whose steeplechasing successes made themheroic in his eyes; and every day he was within speaking distance ofDenis Milden, for whom he had a corresponding admiration. When Deniscame to my loose-boxes and told Dixon that the horses were looking fine,Dixon was more delighted than he knew how to say; and, of course, asbefitted a 'perfect gentleman's servant,' he said almost nothing at all.

This was all very pleasant, but when the afternoons began to lengthenand I had just paid another bill for forage I was forced to look aheadand to realize that the end of the winter would find me in no end of afix. Fix wasn't the word for it as I thought of what Mr. Pennett's facewould look like when I told him that I was £300 in debt. 'Out-runningthe constable' was the phrase which would leap to his lips as sure aseggs were eggs. It was certain that I should be obliged to sell two ofthe horses at the end of the season. I couldn't afford to keep them evenif there had been room for them all in Aunt Evelyn's stable, which therewasn't (two of them had been put up in the village in the previousautumn).

Faced by the prospect of intensive economy in the summer and with noapparent hope of another season in the Midlands, my exodus from theKennels meant disconsolate exile from all newly discovered delights.Even Denis had to admit this, but he had already more than enough tooccupy his mind. The Packlestone people, too, were so pleasant to me andso unaware of my inadequate resources, that I was frequently reminded ofmy forlorn future. Quite a number of them would be going to London forthe season, or had houses there already, and when they hoped to seesomething of me in the summer I felt a very passable imitation of animpostor. Those prosperous and well-appointed lives had no connectionwith my economical future at Butley.

Nevertheless, I had visions of Mayfair in June, and all the well-oiledingredients of affluence and social smartness. I saw myself saunteringabout the sunlit streets, well-dressed and acquainted with plenty ofpeople with large houses in Berkeley, Grosvenor, of Portman Squares,free to attend fashionable functions, and liberated from my previousprovincialism. Fantasias of polite society swept through me in wave onwave of secret snobbishness; life in London when Hyde Park would bebright with flowers assumed the enchanting aspect of a chapter in anelegantly written novel about people with large incomes and aristocraticconnections. Sighing for such splendours, I knew that I was onlyflattening my nose against the plate-glass window of an expensiveflorist's shop. Orchids were altogether beyond my income. I neverdoubted the authenticity of those enjoyments. My immature mind, as wasnatural, conjectured something magical in such allurements ofprosperity. It was the spectacle of vivid life, and I was young to it.

As for the Packlestone people and their London season--well, it is justpossible that they weren't quite as brilliant as I imagined. Ascot,'Lord's,' a few dances and theatres, dull dinner-parties, one or twovisits to the Opera--that was about all. Since I have grown older I haveheard the hollow echoes in that social apparatus; but at that time I wasonly aware that it was an appropriate sequel to the smoothly movingscene in which I was involved. It was a contrast, also, to the rigorousroutine of life at the Kennels. All this contributed to a feeling offinality in my proceedings.

The hunting season ended with an ironic glory at the point-to-points,where the inestimable Cockbird managed to win the Heavy-Weight Raceafter Denis had set him an example in the Light Weights. Everyone agreedthat it was a great day for the Kennels, and a couple of weeksafterwards I was back at Butley.

I had been away from Aunt Evelyn for nearly seven months. I found itnone too easy to tell her all about my eventful absence from the quietbackground which awaited my return. Everything was just the same as everat Butley; and as such it was inevitable that I found it monotonous.Sadly I sold my brilliant chestnut for thirty-six guineas atTattersalls. He was bought by a Belgian officer. I couldn't bring myselfto part with any of the others; neither could I discuss my sportingfuture with Dixon, although he was undoubtedly aware of my difficulties.After an unpalatable interview with Mr. Pennett I succeeded inextracting an extra hundred pounds; and so I settled down to anuneventful summer, restless and inwardly dissatisfied, unable to make upmy mind what to do next winter, and healthier than I'd ever been in mylife, which (though I wasn't aware of it at the time) was saying a gooddeal from the physiological point of view.

I have said I found everything at Butley unchanged. This was not so, forfaithful Miriam had retired from domestic service and her manner ofdoing so had been consistent with her character. During the winter AuntEvelyn had persuaded her to go to the seaside for a fortnight's holiday,as her health had become noticeably bad. While at the seaside sheunobtrusively died of heart failure. To the last, therefore, she managedto avoid being a trouble to anyone. This was a severe blow to AuntEvelyn. She had been so much a part of the place that I had taken forgranted everything she did. Now that she was gone I began to regret theoccasions when I had shown her too little consideration.

Stephen Colwood, who was now a well-contented Artillery subaltern, hadstayed for a week with us at the Kennels, and had departed saying thatthe Packlestone country was a fox-hunter's Paradise and had spoilt himfor anything else.

And so my life lumbered on into July, very much with the same sedatemanner of progress which characterized Homeward's carrier's van. I wentto see the Hunt horses sold at Tattersalls, at the end of May, and thereI encountered many of the friendly Packlestone faces. After that Iavoided London: the mystery and magnificence of Mayfair remained remotefrom my callow comprehension of terrestrial affairs.

Part Nine
In the Army

[I]

Sitting in the sunshine one morning early in September, I ruminated onmy five weeks' service as a trooper in the Yeomanry. Healthier than I'dever been before, I sat on the slope of a meadow a few miles fromCanterbury, polishing a cavalry saddle and wondering how it was that I'dnever learned more about that sort of thing from Dixon. Below me,somewhere in the horse-lines, stood Cockbird, picketed to a peg in theground by a rope which was already giving him a sore pastern. Had I beennear enough to study his facial expression I should have seen what Ialready knew, that Cockbird definitely disliked being a trooper'scharger. He was regretting Dixon and resenting mobilization. He didn'teven belong to me now, for I had been obliged to sell him to theGovernment for a perfunctory fifty pounds, and I was lucky not to havelost sight of him altogether. Apart from the fact that for forty-fivemonths he had been my most prized possession in the world, he was now myonly tangible link with the peaceful past which had provided us bothwith a roof over our heads every night.

My present habitation was a bivouac, rigged up out of a rick-cloth andsome posts, which I shared with eleven other troopers. Outside thebivouac I sat, with much equipment still uncleaned after our morningexercises. I had just received a letter, and it was lying on the grassbeside me. It was from someone at the War Office whom I knew slightly,it offered me a commission, with the rank of captain, in the RemountService. I had also got yesterday's Times, which contained a piece ofpoetry by Thomas Hardy. "What of the faith and fire within us, men whomarch away ere the barncocks say night is growing gray?" I did not needHardy's 'Song of the Soldiers' to warn me that the Remounts was no placefor me. Also the idea of my being any sort of officer in the Army seemedabsurd. I had already been offered a commission in my own Yeomanry, buthow could I have accepted it when everybody was saying that the Germansmight land at Dover any day? I was safe in the Army, and that was all Icared about.

I had slipped into the Downfield troop by enlisting two days before thedeclaration of war. For me, so far, the War had been a mounted infantrypicnic in perfect weather. The inaugural excitement had died down, and Iwas agreeably relieved of all sense of personal responsibility.Cockbird's welfare was my main anxiety; apart from that, being in theArmy was very much like being back at school. My incompetence, comparedwith the relative efficiency of my associates, was causing me perturbedand flustered moments. Getting on parade in time with myself andCockbird properly strapped and buckled was ticklish work. But several ofthe officers had known me out hunting with the Ringwell, and my presencein the ranks was regarded as a bit of a joke, although in my own mind myduties were no laughing matter and I had serious aspirations to heroismin the field. Also I had the advantage of being a better rider than agood many of the men in my squadron, which to some extent balanced myignorance and inefficiency in other respects.

The basis of my life with the 'jolly Yeo-boys' was bodily fatigue,complicated by the minor details of my daily difficulties. There wasalso the uncertainty and the feeling of emergency which we shared withthe rest of the world in that rumor-ridden conjuncture. But my fellowtroopers were kind and helpful, and there was something almost idyllicabout those early weeks of the War. The flavour and significance of lifewere around me in the homely smells of the thriving farm where we werequartered; my own abounding health responded zestfully to the outdoorworld, to the apple-scented orchards, and all those fertilities whichthe harassed farmer was gathering in while stupendous events weredeveloping across the Channel. Never before had I known how much I hadto lose. Never before had I looked at the living world with any degreeof intensity. It seemed almost as if I had been waiting for this thingto happen, although my own part in it was so obscure and submissive.

I belonged to what was known as the 'Service Squadron,' which had beenformed about three weeks after mobilization. The Yeomanry, as aTerritorial unit, had not legitimately pledged themselves for foreignservice. It was now incumbent upon them to volunteer. The squadroncommanders had addressed their mustered men eloquently on the subject,and those who were willing to lay down their lives without delay wereenrolled in the Service Squadron which for a few weeks prided itself onbeing a corps élite under specially selected officers. Very soon itbecame obvious that everyone would be obliged to go abroad whether theywanted to or not, and the too-prudent 'Homeservice' men were not allowedto forget their previous prudence.

As I sat on the ground with my half-cleaned saddle and the War Officeletter, I felt very much a man dedicated to death. And to one who hadnever heard the hiss of machine-gun bullets there was nothingimaginatively abhorrent in the notion. Reality was a long way off; I hadstill to learn how to roll my 'cloak' neatly on the pommel of my saddle,and various other elementary things. Nor had I yet learned how to cleanmy rifle; I hadn't even fired a shot with it. Most of the letters I hadreceived since enlisting had been bills. But they no longer mattered. Ifthe War goes on till next spring, I ruminated, I shall be quite rich.Being in the Army was economical, at any rate!

The bugle blew for twelve o'clock 'stables,' and I went down to thehorse-lines to take Cockbird to the watering trough. Everyone had beentalking about the hundred thousand Russians who were supposed to havepassed through England on their way to France. Away across the hotmidday miles the bells of Canterbury Cathedral refused to recognize theexistence of a war. It was just a dazzling early autumn day, and thegaitered farmer came riding in from his fields on a cob.

As I was leading Cockbird back from watering I passed Nigel Croplady,who was one of the troop leaders. He stopped to speak to me for amoment, and asked whether I had heard from Denis Milden lately; thiscaused me to feel slightly less déclassé. Calling the officers 'sir'and saluting them still made me feel silly. But I got on so comfortablywith the other troopers that I couldn't imagine myself living in thefarmhouse with the officers. The men in my troop included two or threebank clerks, several farmers and small tradesmen's sons, a professionalsteeplechase jockey, and the son of the local M.P. (who had joined atthe outbreak of war). They were all quite young. Discipline was notrigorous, but their conduct was exemplary. I soon found out, however,that they were by no means as efficient as I had expected. The annualtraining had been little more than a three weeks' outing. 'Solidarity onparade' was not an impressive element in the Service Squadron, andsquadron drill was an unsymmetrical affair. Nevertheless, we talkedimpressively among ourselves as though being ordered abroad was only amatter of weeks or even days, and our officers regaled us withoptimistic news from the Western Front. Many of us believed that theRussians would occupy Berlin (and, perhaps, capture the Kaiser) beforeChristmas. The newspapers informed us that German soldiers crucifiedBelgian babies. Stories of that kind were taken for granted; to havedisbelieved them would have been unpatriotic.

When Aunt Evelyn came over to see me one hot Sunday afternoon I assuredher that we should soon be going to the Front. Her private feelingsabout 'men who march away' had to be sacrificed to my reputability as acavalryman. She brought with her some unnecessarily thick shirts and thenews from Butley, where I was, I surmised, regarded as something of ahero. Enlistment in the Army had not yet become an inevitability.Everyone thought it splendid of me to set such an example. I sharedtheir opinion as we went along the horse-lines to look at Cockbird. AuntEvelyn was bearing up bravely about it all, but it was no goodpretending that the War had brought any consolations for her, or forDixon either.

Dixon had taken Cockbird to Downfield the day after mobilization, andhad returned home just in time to interview some self-important personswho were motoring about the country requisitioning horses for the Army.Harkaway had been excused on grounds of old age, but the other two hadbeen taken, at forty pounds apiece: the plump mowing-machine pony wasnot yet needed for a European war.

When we had finished making a fuss of Cockbird I took Aunt Evelyn up toinspect our bivouac; several of my companions were taking their Sabbathease in the shade of the rick-cloth; they scrambled shyly to their feetand Aunt Evelyn was friendly and gracious to them; but she was a visiblereminder to us of the homes we had left behind us.

As I lay awake after 'lights-out,' visual realizations came to me of thedrawing-room at Butley, and Miriam's successor bringing in the oil-lamp;I had not liked it when I was seeing my aunt into the train atCanterbury--the slow train which took her home in the evening sunshinethrough that life-learned landscape which, we all felt, was nowthreatened by barbaric invasion. I had never thought about her in thatway while I was enjoying myself up at Packlestone, and my sympatheticfeeling for her now was, perhaps, the beginning of my emancipation fromthe egotism of youth. I wished I hadn't told her that 'we shouldprobably be going out quite soon.' She would be lying awake and worryingabout it now. The ground was hard under my waterproof sheet, but I wasvery soon asleep.

* * * * * * *

The cloudless weather of that August and September need not be dwelt on;it is a hard fact in history; the spellbound serenity of its hot blueskies will be in the minds of men as long as they remember thecatastrophic events which were under way in that autumn when I wasraising the dust on the roads with the Yeomanry. But there was no tragicelement in my own experience, though I may have seen sadness in thesunshine as the days advanced toward October and the news from Francewent from one extreme to the other with the retreat and advance of ourexpeditionary force.

I can remember the first time that I was 'warned for guard,' and how Ipolished up my boots and buttons for that event. And when, in the middleof the night, I had been roused up to take my turn as sentry, I did notdoubt that it was essential that someone in a khaki uniform should standsomewhere on the outskirts of the byres and barns of Batt's Farm. MyKing and Country expected it of me. There was, I remember, a low mistlying on the fields, and I was posted by a gate under a walnut tree. Inthe autumn-smelling silence the village church clanged one o'clock.Shortly afterwards I heard someone moving in my direction across thefield which I was facing. The significance of those approaching feet wasintensified by my sentrified nerves. Holding my rifle defensively (and aloaded rifle, too), I remarked in an unemphatic voice, "Halt, who goesthere?" There was no reply. Out of the mist and the weeds through whichit was wading emerged the Kentish cow which I had challenged.

* * * * * * *

By the third week in September the nights were becoming chilly, and weweren't sorry when we were moved into the Workhouse, which was quitenear the farm where we had been camping. Sleeping in the Workhouseseemed luxurious; but it put an end to the summer holiday atmosphere ofthe previous weeks, and there were moments when I felt lesslight-hearted than I would have admitted to myself at the time. Soonafterwards young Nunburne (the M.P.'s son) was whisked away toSandhurst, his father having decided that he would be more suitablysituated as a subaltern in the Guards. His departure made a difference,but it did not convince me that as I ought to become an officer myself,though Cockbird, also, had in a manner of speaking, accepted acommission.

For the daily spectacle of Cockbird's discomforts (the most important ofwhich was the enormous weight of equipment which he had to carry) hadinduced me to transfer him to the squadron commander, who was glad toget hold of such a good-looking and perfect-mannered charger. Having gota tolerably comfortable horse in exchange, I now had the satisfaction ofseeing Cockbird moving easily about with a light-weight on his back anda properly trained groom to look after him. I felt proud of him as Iwatched his elegant and pampered appearance.

"Of course you'll be able to buy him back at the end of the War," saidthe squadron commander; but I knew that I had lost him; it was a stepnearer to bleak realization of what I was in for. Anyhow, I thought,Dixon would hate to see old Cockbird being knocked about in the ranks.As for Cockbird, he didn't seem to know me since his promotion.

It must have been about this time that I began to be definitely boredwith Yeomanry life. It was now becoming a recognized fact, even in theranks, that we were unlikely to be sent to the Front in our presentsemi-efficient condition. It was said, too, that 'Kitchener had got adown on our Brigade.' I remember riding home from a Brigade Field Dayone afternoon at the end of September. My horse had gone lame and I hadbeen given permission to withdraw from the unconvincing operations.During three or four leisurely miles back to the Workhouse I was awareof the intense relief of being alone and, for those few miles, free. Forthe first time since I'd joined the Army with such ardours I felthomesick. I was riding back to a Workhouse and the winter lay ahead ofme. There was no hope of sitting by the fire with a book after a goodday's hunting.

I thought of that last cricket match, on August Bank Holiday, when I wasat Hoadley Rectory playing for the Rector's eleven against the village,and how old Colonel Hesmon had patted me on the back because I'denlisted on the Saturday before. Outwardly the match had been normallyconducted, but there was something in the sunshine which none of us hadever known before that calamitous Monday. Parson Colwood had two sons inthe service, and his face showed it. I thought of how I'd said good-byeto Stephen the next day. He had gone to his Artillery and I had gone tostay at the hotel in Downfield, where I waited till the Wednesdaymorning and then put on my ill-fitting khaki and went bashfully down tothe Drill Hall to join the Downfield troop. I had felt a hero when I waslying awake on the floor of the Town Hall on the first night of the War.

But the uncertainty and excitement had dwindled. And here I was, ridingpast the park wall of Lord Kitchener's country house and wondering howlong this sort of thing was going to last. Kitchener had told thecountry that it would be three years. 'Three years or the duration' waswhat I had enlisted for. My heart sank to my boots (which were too widefor my stirrups) as I thought of those three years of imprisonment anddreary discomfort. The mellow happy looking afternoon and thecomfortable Kentish landscape made it worse. It wouldn't have been sobad if I'd been doing something definite. But there was nothing to writehome about in this sort of existence. Raking up horse-dung beforebreakfast had ceased to be a new experience. And the jokes and jollityof my companions had likewise lost freshness. They were very good chaps,but young Nunburne had been the only one I could really talk to aboutthings which used to happen before the War began. But there was burlyBob Jenner, son of a big farmer in the Ringwell Hunt; he was in mysection, and had failed to get a commission on account of his havinglost the sight of one eye. What I should have done without him to talkto I couldn't imagine. I had known him out hunting, so there were a goodmany simple memories which we could share....

Escape came unexpectedly. It came about a week later. My horse was stilllame and I had been going out on the chargers of various men who hadspecial jobs in the squadron, such as the quartermaster-sergeant. Onefortunate morning the farrier-sergeant asked me to take his horse out;he said the horse needed sharpening up. We went out for some field-workand, as usual, I was detailed to act as ground scout. My notion ofacting as ground scout was to go several hundred yards ahead of thetroop and look for jumpable fences. But the ground was still hard andthe hedges were blind with summer vegetation, and when I put thefarrier-sergeant's horse at a lush-looking obstacle I failed to observethat there was a strand of wire in it. He took it at the roots andturned somersault. My wide boots were firmly wedged in the stirrups andthe clumsy beast rolled all over me. Two young men, acting as the'advance guard' of the troop, were close behind me. One of themdismounted and scrambled hurriedly through the hedge, while the othershouted to him to 'shoot the horse,' who was now recumbent with one ofmy legs under him. My well-meaning rescuer actually succeeded inextracting my rifle from its 'bucket,' but before he had time to make myposition more perilous by loading it, Bob Jenner arrived, brought him tohis senses with some strong language, and extricated me, half-stunnedand very much crushed. The same day I was taken to a doctor's house inCanterbury. It would be hypocrisy to say that I was fundamentallydistressed about my badly broken arm. I couldn't have got a respite fromthe Workhouse in any other way. But if I had been able to look into thefuture I should have learned one very sad fact. I had seen the last ofmy faithful friend Cockbird.

[II]

Staring at my face in a mirror two months after the accident, I comparedmy pallid appearance with the picture of health I used to see in a smallscrap of glass when I was shaving with cold water in the Army. All mysunburnt health and hardihood had vanished with my old pair of breeches(which the nurse who looked after me had thrown away, saying that theymade the room smell like a stable), but I had still got my skimpy tunicto remind me that I had signed away my freedom. Outside the doctor'shouse where I was lodged, another stormy December afternoon was closingin with torrents of rain. Would it ever stop raining, I wondered. Andwould my right arm ever be rid of this infernal splint? Anyhow, myDecember face matched the weather in exactly the same way as it had donein August and September.

The Yeomanry were now in a camp of huts close to the town. EverySaturday Bob Jenner or one of the others came to see me; while they werewith me my ardour revived, but when I was alone again I found it moreand more difficult to imagine myself sharing the discomforts which theydescribed so light-heartedly. But I had only exchanged one prison foranother, and after reading about the War in the newspapers for nineweeks, the 'faith and fire' within me seemed almost extinguished. My armhad refused to join up, and I had spent more than an hour under ananaesthetic while the doctor screwed a silver plate on to the bone. Thefracture wobbled every time I took a deep breath, and my arm was verymuch inflamed. When I was out for a walk with my arm in a sling I felt afraud, because the people I passed naturally assumed that I had been tothe Front. When my squadron commander came to see me I couldn't helpfeeling that he suspected me of not getting well on purpose. I stillfound it impossible to imagine myself as an officer. It was only half anhour's walk to the Yeomanry camp, but I could never get myself to go upthere.

The weather had been as depressing as the War news. Like everybody elseI eagerly assimilated the optimistic reports in the papers about Russianvictories in East Prussia, and so on. 'The Russian steam-roller'; howremote that phrase seems now!... Often I prayed that the War would beover before my arm got well. A few weeks later the doctor said the bonehad united and I had another operation for the removal of the plate. Inthe middle of January I was allowed to return home, with my arm still ina splint.

Since my accident I had received a series of letters from Stephen, whowas with an ammunition column on the Western Front and apparently in noimmediate danger. He said there wasn't an honest jumpable fence inFlanders; his forced optimism about next year's opening meet failed toconvince me that he expected the 'great contest,' as he called it, to beover by then. Denis had disappeared into a cavalry regiment and wasstill in England. For him the world had been completely disintegrated bythe War, but he seemed to be making the best of a bad job.

It was five and a half months since I had been home. I had left Butleywithout telling anyone that I had made up my mind to enlist. On thatominous July 31st I said long and secret goodbyes to everything andeveryone. Late in a sultry afternoon I said good-bye to thedrawing-room. The sun blinds (with their cords which tapped and creakedso queerly when there was any wind to shake them) were drawn down thetall windows; I was alone in the twilight room, with the glowering redof sunset peering through the chinks and casting the shadows of leaveson a fiery patch of light which rested on the wall by the photograph of'Love and Death.' So I looked my last and rode away to the War on mybicycle. Somehow I knew that it was inevitable, and my one idea was tobe first in the field. In fact, I made quite an impressive inwardemotional experience out of it. It did not occur to me that everyoneelse would be rushing off to enlist next week. My gesture was, so tospeak, an individual one, and I gloried in it.

And now, although Aunt Evelyn fussed over me as if I were a real woundedsoldier, I was distinctly conscious of an anti-climax. I had lookedforward to seeing Dixon again, in spite of the sad state of affairs inthe stable. But before I had been in the house five minutes Aunt Evelynhad given me some news which took me by surprise. Dixon had gone away tojoin the Army Veterinary Corps. This had happened two days ago. He wasforty-three, but he hadn't a grey hair, and he had stated his age asthirty-five. The news had a bracing effect on me. It wasn't the firsttime that Tom Dixon had given me a quiet hint as to what was expected ofme.

The worst of the winter was over and my arm was mending. Aunt Evelyntalked almost gaily about my going back to the Yeomanry in the spring.She had twigged that it was a comparatively safe location, and I knewfrom her tone of voice that she was afraid I might do something worse.If she had been more subtle and sagacious she would have urged me toexchange into the Infantry. As it was she only succeeded in stiffeningmy resolve to make no mistake about it this time. I had made one falsestart, and as I'd got to go to the Front, the sooner I went the better.The instinct of self-preservation, however, made it none too easy, whenI was sitting by the fire of an evening, or out for a walk on a mildFebruary afternoon; already there were primroses in the woods, and whereshould I be in twelve months' time, I wondered. Pushing them up,perhaps!...

But I had struggled through the secret desperations of that winter, andI like to remember myself walking over one afternoon to consult CaptainHuxtable about a commission in an infantry regiment. Captain Huxtable,who had always shown an almost avuncular concern for my career, hadjoined the Army in 1860. He was a brisk, freckled, God-fearing, cheerfullittle man, and although he was now over seventy, he didn't seem to havealtered in appearance since I was a child. He was a wonderful man forhis age. Chairman of the local bench, churchwarden, fond of a day'sshooting with Squire Maundle, comfortably occupied with a moderate sizedfarm overlooking the Weald, he was a pattern of neighbourly qualities,and there was no one with whom Aunt Evelyn more enjoyed a good gossip.Time-honoured jokes passed between them, and his manner toward her wasjovial, spruce, and gallant. He was a neat skater, and his compacthomespun figure seemed to find its most appropriate setting when theponds froze and he was cutting his neat curves on the hard, ringingsurface; his apple-cheeked countenance, too, had a sort of blithe goodhumour which seemed in keeping with the frosty weather. He was a man whoknew a good Stilton cheese and preferred it over-ripe. His shrewd andwatchful eye had stocked his mind with accurate knowledge of thecountryside. He was, as he said himself, 'addicted to observing thehabits of a rook,' and he was also a keen gardener.

Captain Huxtable was therefore an epitome of all that was most pleasantand homely in the countrified life for which I was proposing to risk myown. And so, though neither of us was aware of it, there was a grimlyjocular element in the fact that it was to him that I turned forassistance. It may be inferred that he had no wish that I should bekilled, and that he would have been glad if he could have gone to theFront himself, things being as they were; but he would have regarded itas a greater tragedy if he had seen me shirking my responsibility. Tohim, as to me, the War was inevitable and justifiable. Courage remaineda virtue. And that exploitation of courage, if I may be allowed to say athing so obvious, was the essential tragedy of the War, which, aseveryone now agrees, was a crime against humanity.

Luckily for my peace of mind, I had no such intuitions when I walkedacross the fields to Butley that afternoon, with four o'clock strikingin mellow tones from the grey church tower, the village childrenstraggling home from school, and the agricultural serenity of the Wealdwidespread in the delicate hazy sunshine. In the tall trees near CaptainHuxtable's house the rooks were holding some sort of conference, and itwas with a light heart that I turned in at his gate. It happened that asI rang the front-door bell an airship droned its way over the house.Every afternoon that airship passed over our parish, on its way, so itwas said, to France. The Captain came out now to watch it from hisdoorstep, and when it disappeared he led me into his sanctum and showedme a careful pencil drawing of it, which he had made the first time itslustrous body appeared above his garden. Under the stiff little sketchhe had written, 'airship over our house,' and the date. It was his wayof 'putting on record' a significant event. Sixteen months afterwards heprobably jotted down some such memorandum as this: 'Between 11 and 12this morning, while we were getting in the last load of hay, Idistinctly heard the guns in France. A very faint thudding noise butquite continuous as long as it was audible.' But he wasn't able to makea neat pencil drawing of the intensive preliminary bombardment on theSomme.

[III]

As a result of my conversation with Captain Huxtable he wrote a letterabout me to the Adjutant at the Training Depot of the Royal FlintshireFusiliers, which was his old regiment. As far as he was concerned theFlintshire Fusiliers were, as he said, ancient history; but the Adjutanthappened to be the nephew of an old brother officer of his, and hejovially remarked that he would perjure himself for once in a way bygiving me a good character. For him his old 'corps' ranked next belowreligion, and to be thus almost actively in touch with the regiment gavehim deep satisfaction.

His room contained many objects associated with his army life; he hadseen garrison service in India; there were mementoes of that; and hislittle water-colour foreign sketches which I had often seen before. Hissword, of course, was hanging on the wall. Everything connected withCaptain Huxtable's regimental career had suddenly become significant andstimulating. The Flintshire Fusiliers, which I had so often heard himspeak about (and had taken so little interest in), had become somethingto be lived up to. I would be a credit to him, I resolved, as I wenthome across the dark fields.

The local doctor had said I might take the splint off my arm next dayand that was a step in the right direction. I said nothing to AuntEvelyn about my conspiracy with her old friend until a week later, whenI received a favourable letter from the Adjutant. I was to make a formalapplication for a Special Reserve commission. The Special Reserve was anew name for the old Militia; a temporary commission in the New Armywould have been much the same, but Captain Huxtable wanted me to do thething properly. Greatly as he admired their spirit, he couldn't helplooking down a bit on those Kitchener's Army battalions.

When I broke the news to Aunt Evelyn she said that of course I was doingthe right thing. "But I do hate you doing it, my dear!" she added.Should I have to go all the way to Flintshire, she asked. I said Isupposed I should, for the depot was there.

And although I agreed with her that it would have been nice if I'd beensomewhere nearer, I had a private conviction that I wanted to make myfresh start among people who knew nothing of me. Dixon had said (when hebrought Cockbird to Downfield the day after mobilization) that if I hadto be in the ranks I ought to have done it somewhere where I wasn't sowell known. I found afterwards that there was a great deal of truth inhis remark. The Yeomanry would have been more comfortable for me if noneof the officers had known me before I joined. I now felt strongly infavour of getting right away from my old associations. Captain Huxtablehad given me all I needed in the way of a send-off. Aunt Evelyn washelping at the Voluntary Aid Detachment Hospital, which, as she said,took her mind off things.

Stephen, when I wrote and told him about it, replied that since I was sokeen on getting killed I might as well do it properly dressed, and gaveme the name of his military tailor, which was a rather unfortunateone--Craven & Sons. He had been expecting to get a week's leave, but ithad been 'stopped owing to the big strafe' which was imminent; (theBattle of Neuve Chapelle happened soon afterwards).

Ordering my uniform from Craven & Sons was quite enjoyable--almost likegetting hunting clothes. Situated in a by-way off Bond Street, the firmof Craven & Sons had been established a century ago in the cathedralcity of Wintonbury. To the best of my knowledge the firm was exclusivelymilitary, though there may have been a demure ecclesiastical connectionat the 'and at Wintonbury' shop. I was warmly welcomed by a floridgentleman with a free and easy manner; he might almost have been a majorif he had not been so ostensibly a tailor. He spoke affectionately ofthe Flintshire Fusiliers ('The Twenty-Fifth' he called them); he had'been up at the depot only the other day,' and he mentioned a few of thefirst and second battalion officers by name; one might almost haveimagined that he had played polo with them, so dashing was his demeanouras he twirled his blond moustache. This representative of Craven & Sonswas like the royal family; he never forgot a name. He must have knownthe Army List from cover to cover, for he had called on nearly everyofficers' mess in the country during the periodical pilgrimages on whichthe prosperity of his firm depended. Newly gazetted subalterns foundthemselves unable to resist his persuasive suggestions, though he mayhave met his match in an occasional curmudgeonly colonel. Mr. Stoving(for that was his name) chatted his way courageously through the War;'business as usual' was his watchword. Undaunted by the ever morebloated bulk of the Army List, he bobbed like a cork on the lethalinundation of temporary commissions, and when I last saw him, a fewmonths before the Armistice, he was still outwardly unconscious of thecasualty lists which had lost (and gained) him such a legion ofcustomers.

As soon as he had put me at ease I became as wax in his hands. He knewmy needs so much better than I did that when I paid a second visit totry on my tunics, there seemed no reason why he shouldn't put me througha little squad drill. But he only made one reference to the cataclysm ofmilitary training which was in progress, and that was when I waschoosing khaki shirts. "You can't have them too dark;" he insisted,when my eye wandered toward a paler pattern. "We have to keep those instock--they're for the East of course--but it's quite impermissible theway some of these New Army officers dress: really, the Provost-Marshalought to put a stop to all these straw-coloured shirts and ties they'recoming out in." He lifted his eyes in horror....

A few weeks later (a second lieutenant in appearance only) I arrived atthe training depot of the 'Twenty-Fifth.' The whole concern had recentlymigrated from the small peace-time barracks in Flintshire to a new campof huts on the outskirts of Liverpool. On a fine afternoon at the end ofApril I got out of the local electric railway at Clitherland Station.Another evidently new officer also climbed out of the train, and weshared a cab up to the camp, with our brand new valises rolling about onthe roof. My companion was far from orthodox in what he was wearing, andfrom his accent I judged him to be a Yorkshireman. His good-humouredface was surmounted by a cap, which was as soft as mine was stiff. Hisshirt and tie were more yellow than khaki. And his breeches were of abright buff tint. His tunic was of the correct military colour, but itsat uneasily on his podgy figure. His name, he told me, was Mansfield,and he made no secret of the fact that he had chucked up a job worth£800 a year. "And a nice hope I've got of ever getting it back again!"he added.

When our luggage was unloaded we went to report ourselves at the orderlyroom. Everything was quiet and deserted, for the troops were drilling ona big field a few hundred yards up the road which went past the camp. Weentered the orderly room. The Adjutant was sitting at a table strewnwith documents. We saluted clumsily, but he did not look up for a minuteor two. When he deigned to do so his eyes alighted on Mansfield. Duringa prolonged scrutiny he adjusted an eyeglass. Finally he leant back inhis chair and exclaimed, with unreproducable hauteur, "Christ! who'syour tailor?" This (with a reminder that his hair wanted cutting) wasthe regimental recognition which Mansfield received from his gratefulcountry for having given up a good job in the woolen industry. My ownreception was in accordance with the cut of my clothes and mycredentials from Captain Huxtable.

[IV]

It is ten years since I uttered an infantry word of command: and I amonly one of a multitude of men in whose minds parade ground phraseologyhas become as obsolete and derelict as a rusty kettle in a ditch. Somuch so that it seems quite illuminating to mention the fact. 'At thehalt on the left form platoon' now sounds to me positively peculiar, andto read Infantry Training 1914 for a few minutes might be an almoststimulating experience. Though banished to the backs of our minds, thoseautomatic utterances can still be recalled; but who can restoreClitherland Camp and its counterparts all over the country? Most of themwere constructed on waste land; and to waste land they have relapsed. Icannot imagine any ex-soldier revisiting Clitherland in pensivepilgrimage. Apart from its deadening associations, it was in anunattractive neighborhood. The district was industrial. Half a mile awaywere the chimneys of Bryant's Match Factory. Considerably closer was ahissing and throbbing inferno, which incessantly concocted the form ofhigh explosive known as T.N.T.; when the wind was in the east the Campgot the benefit of the fumes, which caused everyone to cough. Adjoiningthe Camp, on the other side, was a large Roman Catholic cemetery.Frequent funeral processions cheered up the troops. The surroundingcountry, with its stunted dwelling-houses, dingy trees, disconsolatecanal, and flat rootfields, was correspondingly unlikable.

Unrolling my valise in a comfortless hut on that first afternoon, I wascompletely cut off from anything I had done before. Not a soul in theCamp had ever set eyes on me until to-day. And I was totally ignorant ofall that I had to learn before I was fit to go to the Front. Fixing upmy folding bed, in which I managed to pinch my finger, I listened towhat this new world had to tell me. A bugle call was blown--rather outof tune--but what event it signalized I couldn't say. An officer'sservant was whistling cheerfully, probably to a pair of brown shoes. Adoor banged and his army boots thumped hastily along the passage. Then asedate tread passed along on the boards, evidently some senior officer.Silence filled a gap, and then I heard a dusty rhythm of marching feet;the troops were returning from the drill-field up the road. Finally,from the open space behind the officers' quarters, a manly young voiceshouted, "At the halt on the left form close column of platoons."Clitherland Camp had got through another afternoon parade. I was in asoldier manufactory, although I did not see it in that way at the time.

The cell-like room was already occupied by one other officer. Hetranspired as an unobtrusive ex-civil engineer--a married man, andexpecting to go to France with the next draft of officers. He wasfriendly but uncommunicative; in the evenings, after mess, he used tosit on his bed playing patience with a pack of small cards. It must notbe assumed that I found life in the Camp at all grim and unpleasant.Everything was as aggressively cheerful and alert as the ginger-hairedsergeant-major who taught the new officers how to form fours and slopearms, and so on, until they could drill a company of recruits with rigidassurance. In May 1915 the recruits were men who had voluntarily joinedup, the average age of the second lieutenants was twenty-one, and'war-weariness' had not yet been heard of. I was twenty-eight myself,but I was five years younger in looks, and in a few days I was one ofthis outwardly light-hearted assortment, whose only purpose was to 'getsent out' as soon as possible.

The significant aspects of Clitherland as it was then can now be seenclearly, and they are, I think, worth reviving. It was a community (ifanything could be called a community under such convulsive conditions)which contained contrasted elements. There were the ostensibly permanentsenior officers of the pre-war Special Reserve Battalion (several ofwhom had South African War ribbons to make them more impressive); andthere were the young men whose salutes they received and for whosefuture efficiency at the Front they were, supposedly, responsible. Forthese younger men there was the contrast between the Camp andClitherland (in the bright summer weather of that year) and the placesthey were booked for (such as the Battle of Loos and the Dardanelles).It was, roughly speaking, the difference between the presence of life(with battalion cricket matches and good dinners at the hotel de luxe inLiverpool) and the prospect of death: (next winter in the trenches,anyhow). A minor (social) contrast was provided by the increasinglynumerous batches of Service Battalion officers, whose arrival to someextent clashed with the more carefully selected Special Reservecommissions (like my own) and the public-school boys who came from theRoyal Military College. I mention this 'feeling' because the 'temporarygentlemen' (disgusting phrase), whose manners and accents were liable tocriticism by the Adjutant, usually turned out to be first-rate officerswhen they got to the trenches. In justice to the Adjutant it must beremembered that he was there to try and make them conform to the Regular'officer and gentleman' pattern which he exemplified. And so, whileimprovised officers came and went, Clitherland Camp was a sort of rafton which they waited for the moment of embarkation which landed them asreinforcements to the still more precarious communities on the otherside of the Channel.

Those who were fortunate enough to return, a year or two later, wouldfind among a crowd of fresh faces, the same easygoing Militia majorsenjoying their port placidly at the top of the table. For, to put itplainly, they weren't mobile men, although they had been mobilized forthe Great War. They were the products of peace, and war had wrenchedthem away from their favourite nooks and niches. The Commanding Officerwas a worthy (but somewhat fussy) Breconshire landowner. He now foundhimself in charge of 3,000 men and about 100 officers, and was inundatedwith documents from the War Office. His second-in-command was a tallIrishman, who was fond of snipe shooting. Nature had endowed him with animpressive military appearance; but he was in reality the mildest ofmen. This kind and courteous gentleman found himself obliged to exist ina hut on the outskirts of Liverpool for an indefinite period.

There were several more majors; three of them had been to the Front, buthad remained there only a few weeks, the difference between a clubwindow and a dug-out had been too much for them. Anyhow, here they were,and there was the War, and to this day I don't see how things could havebeen differently arranged. They appeared to be unimaginative men, andthe Colonel probably took it as all in the day's work when he toddledout after mess on some night when a draft was 'proceeding to the Front.'Out on the Square he would find, perhaps, 150 men drawn up; disciplinewould be none too strict, since most of them had been fortifyingthemselves in the canteen. He would make his stuttering little farewellspeech about being a credit to the regiment; going out to the Big Pushwhich will end the War; and so on. And then the local clergyman wouldexhort them to trust in their Saviour, to an accompaniment of asides andwitticisms in Welsh.

"And now God go with you," he would conclude, adding, "I will go withyou as far as the station...."

And they would march away in the dark singing to the beat of drums. Itwasn't impressive, but what else could the Colonel and the clergymanhave said or done?...

Young officers were trained by efficient N.C.O.'s; the senior officerswere responsible for company accounts, kit inspections, and other camproutine, and the spirit of the regiment, presumably, presided over usall. I have reason to believe that Clitherland was one of the mostcompetently managed camps in the country; high authorities looked uponit as exemplary.

Needless to say, I felt awestruck by my surroundings as I edged my wayshyly into mess on my first evening. The cheerful crowd of juniorofficers sat at two long tables which culminated in the one across thetop, which was occupied by the impressive permanencies of whom I havebeen writing. Old soldiers with South African, China, and even Ashantimedal ribbons bustled in and out with plates.

Outside in the evening light among the subalterns who waited for theOlympians to emerge from the ante-room, I had spoken to no one. Next tome now was a young man who talked too much and seemed anxious to air hissocial eligibility. From the first I felt that there was something amisswith him. And he was, indeed, one of the most complete failures I evercame across in the War. G. Vivian-Simpson had joined the battalion twoor three months before, and for a time he was regarded as smart andpromising. A bit of a bounder, perhaps, but thoroughly keen and likelyto become competent. He was known among the young officers as'Pardon-me,' which was his characteristic utterance. Little by littlepoor 'Pardon-me' was found out by everyone. His social pretensions wereunmasked. (He had been an obscure bank clerk in Liverpool.) Hishyphenated name became an object of ridicule. His whole spurious edificefell to bits. He got into trouble with the Adjutant for cutting paradesand failing to pass in musketry. In fact, he was found to be altogetherunreliable and a complete cad. For two and a half years he remainedignominiously at the Camp. Fresh officers arrived, were fully trained,and passed away to the trenches. In the meantime guards had to beprovided for for the docks along the Mersey, and 'Pardon-me' was usuallyin command of one of these perfunctory little expeditions. He must havespent some dreary days at the docks, but it was rumoured that heconsoled himself with amorous adventures. Then, when he least expectedit, he was actually sent to the Front. Luck was against him; he wasintroduced to the Ypres salient at its worst. His end was described tome as follows: "Poor old 'Pardon-me'! He was in charge of some Lewisgunners in an advance post. He crawled back to Company headquarters toget his breakfast. You remember what a greedy devil he was! Well, aboutan hour after he'd gone back to his shell-hole, he decided to chance hisarm for another lot of eggs and bacon. A sniper got him while he was onhis way, and so he never got his second breakfast!"

It was a sad story, but I make no apology for dragging it from itsdecent oblivion. All squalid, abject, and inglorious elements in warshould be remembered. The intimate mental history of any man who went tothe War would make unheroic reading. I have half a mind to write my own.

In the meantime there is nothing more to be said about my first night inmess, and the next morning I began to acquire the alphabet of infantrytraining. Mansfield picked it up twice as quick as I did. For he was acompetent man, in spite of his New Army style of dress. And his 'word ofcommand' had fire and ferocity; whereas mine was much as might have beenexpected (in spite of my having acquired a passable 'view holloa' duringmy fox-hunting life). Learning how to be a second lieutenant was arelief to my mind. It made the War seem further away. I hadn't time tothink about it, and by the end of each day I was too healthily tired toworry about anything.

Life in the officers' mess was outwardly light-hearted. Only when newscame from our two battalions in France were we vividly reminded of thefuture. Then for a brief while the War came quite close; mitigated byour experience of what it was like, it laid a wiry finger on the heart.There was the battle of Festubert in the middle of May. That made usthink a bit. The first battalion had been in it and had lost manyofficers. Those who were due for the next draft were slightly morecheerful than was natural. The next thing I knew about them was thatthey had gone--half a dozen of them. I went on afternoon parade, andwhen I returned to the hut my fellow occupant had vanished with all histackle. But my turn was months away yet....

The following day was a Sunday, and I was detailed to take a party tochurch. They were Baptists and there were seven of them. I marched themto the Baptist Chapel in Bootle, wondering what on earth to do when Igot them to the door. Ought I to say, "Up the aisle; quick march?" Asfar as I can remember we reverted to civilian methods and shuffled intothe Chapel in our own time. At the end of the service the beardedminister came and conversed with me very cordially and I concealed thefact that it was my first experience of his religion. Sunday morning inthe Baptist Chapel made the trenches seem very remote. What possibleconnection was there?

Next day some new officers arrived, and one of them took the place ofthe silent civil engineer in my room. We had the use of the localcricket ground; I came in that evening feeling peaceful after battingand bowling at the nets for an hour. It seemed something to be gratefulfor--that the War hadn't killed cricket yet, and already it was a reliefto be in flannels and out of uniform. Coming cheerfully into the hut Isaw my new companion for the first time. He had unpacked and arrangedhis belongings, and was sitting on his camp-bed polishing a perfectlynew pipe. He looked up at me. Twilight was falling and there was onlyone small window, but even in the half-light his face surprised me byits candour and freshness. He had the obvious good looks which go withfair hair and firm features, but it was the radiant integrity of hisexpression which astonished me. While I was getting ready for dinner weexchanged a few remarks. His tone of voice was simple and reassuring,like his appearance. How does he manage to look like that? I thought;and for the moment I felt all my age, though the world had taught melittle enough, as I knew then, and know even better now. His was thebright countenance of truth; ignorant and undoubting; incapable ofconcealment but strong in reticence and modesty. In fact, he was as goodas gold, and everyone knew it as soon as they knew him.

Such was Dick Tiltwood, who had left school six months before and hadsince passed through Sandhurst. He was the son of a parson with a goodfamily living. Generations of upright country gentlemen had made DickTiltwood what he was, and he had arrived at manhood in the nick of timeto serve his country in what he naturally assumed to be a just andglorious war. Everyone told him so; and when he came to Clitherland Camphe was a shining epitome of his unembittered generation which gladlygave itself to the German shells and machine-guns--more gladly, perhaps,than the generation which knew how much (or how little, some would say)it had to lose. Dick made all the difference to my life at Clitherland.Apart from his cheerful companionship, which was like perpetual fineweather, his Sandhurst training enabled him to help me in mine.Patiently he heard me while I went through my repetitions of themechanism of the rifle. And in company drill, which I was slow inlearning, he was equally helpful.

In return for this I talked to him about fox-hunting, which never failedto interest him. He had hunted very little, but he regarded it asimmensely important and much of the material of these memoirs becamefamiliar to him through our conversations in the hut: I used to read himStephen's letters from the Front, which were long and full of amusingreferences to the sport that for him symbolized everything enjoyablewhich the War had interrupted and put an end to. His references to theWar were facetious. "An eight-inch landed and duly expanded this morningtwenty yards from our mess, which was half-filled with earth. However,the fourth footman soon cleared it and my sausage wasn't even cracked,so I had quite a good breakfast." But he admitted that he was lookingforward to "the outbreak of peace," and in one letter went so far as tosay that he was "just about as bucked as I should be if I was booked fora week with the Pytchley and it froze the whole time." Dick got to knowStephen quite well, although he had never seen him, except in a littlephotograph I had with me. So we defied the boredom of life in the Camp,and while the summer went past us our only fear was that we might beseparated when our turn came to go abroad. He gave me a sense ofsecurity, for his smooth head was no more perplexed with problems than arobin redbreast's; he wound up his watch, brushed his hair, and said hisprayers morning and evening.

September arrived, and we were both expecting to get a week's leave. (Itwas known as 'last leave.') One morning Dick came in to the hut with atelegram which he handed me. It happened that I was orderly officer thatday. Being orderly officer meant a day of dull perfunctory duties, suchas turning out the guard, inspecting the prisoners in the guardroom, thecookhouses, the canteen, and everything else in the Camp. When I openedmy telegram the orderly sergeant was waiting outside for me; we were duefor a tour of the men's huts while they were having their midday meal.The telegram was signed Colwood; it informed me that Stephen had beenkilled in action. But the orderly sergeant was waiting, and away we wentwalking briskly, over the grit and gravel. At each hut he opened thedoor and shouted "Shun!" The clatter and chatter ceased and all I had toask was "Any complaints?" There were no complaints, and off we went tothe next hut. It was queer to be doing it, with that dazed feeling andthe telegram in my pocket.... I showed Dick the telegram when Ireturned. I had seen Stephen when he was on leave in the spring, and hehad written to me only a week ago. Reading the Roll of Honour in thedaily paper wasn't the same thing as this. Looking at Dick's blank faceI became aware that he would never see Stephen now, and the meaning ofthe telegram became clear to me.

Part Ten
At the Front

[I]

Dick and I were on our way to the first battalion. The real War, thatbig bullying bogey, had stood up and beckoned to us at last, and now theBase Camp was behind us with its overcrowded discomforts that wereunmitigated by esprit de corps. Still more remote, the sudden shock ofbeing uprooted from the Camp at Clitherland, and the strainedtwenty-four hours in London before departure. For the first time in ourlives we had crossed the Channel. We had crossed it in bright moonlighton a calm sea--Dick and I sitting together on a tarpaulin cover in thebow of the boat, which was happily named 'Victoria.' Long after midnightwe had left Folkestone; had changed our course in an emergency avoidanceof Boulogne (caused by the sinking of a hospital ship, we heardafterwards), had stared at Calais harbour, and seen sleepy French facesin the blear beginnings of November daylight. There had been the hiatusof uncertainty at Etaples (four sunless days of north wind amongpine-trees), while we were waiting to be 'posted' to our battalion. Andnow, in a soiled fawn-coloured first-class compartment, we clanked andrumbled along and everything in the world was behind us....

Victoria Station: Aunt Evelyn's last, desperately forced smile; andDick's father, Canon Tiltwood, proud and burly, pacing the platformbeside his slender son and wearing cheeriness like a light unclericalovercoat, which couldn't conceal the gravity of a heart heavy as lead.What did they say to one another, he and Aunt Evelyn, when the train hadsnorted away and left an empty space in front of them?...

To have finished with farewells; that in itself was a burden discarded.And now there was nothing more to worry about. Everything was behind us,and the first battalion was in front of us.

At nine o'clock we were none of us looking over-bright, for we hadparaded with kit at two in the morning, though the train, in itswar-time way, hadn't started till three hours later. There we sat, Dickand I and Mansfield (at last released from peace-time Army conventions)and Joe Barless (a gimlet-moustached ex-sergeant-major who wassubmitting philosophically to his elevation into officerdom and spat onthe floor at frequent regular intervals). On our roundabout journey westopped at St. Pol and overheard a few distant bangs--like the slammingof a heavy door, they sounded. Barless had been out before; had been hitat the first battle of Ypres; had left a wife and family behind him;knocked his pipe out and expectorated, with a grim little jerk of hisbullet head, when he heard the guns. We others looked to him forguidance now, and he was giving us all we needed, in his taciturn,matter-of-fact way, until he got us safely reported with the firstbattalion.

It felt funny to be in France for the first time. The sober-colouredcountry all the way from Etaples had looked lifeless and unattractive, Ithought. But one couldn't expect much on a starved grey Novembermorning. A hopeless hunting country, it looked.... The opening meetwould have been last week if there hadn't been this war.... Dick wasmunching chocolate and reading the Strand Magazine, with its cosyreminder of London traffic on the cover. I hadn't lost sight of him yet,thank goodness. The Adjutant at Clitherland had sworn to do his best toget us both sent to the first battalion. But it was probably an accidentthat he had succeeded. It was a lucky beginning, anyhow. What a railwaytasting mouth I'd got! A cup of coffee would be nice, though Frenchcoffee tasted rather nasty, I thought.... We got to Bethune byhalf-past ten.

* * * * * * *

We got to Bethune by half-past ten: I am well aware that the statementis, in itself, an arid though an accurate one. And at this crisis in mycareer I should surely be ready with something spectacular and exciting.Nevertheless, I must admit that I have no such episode to exhibit. Theevents in my experience must take their natural course. I distinctlyremember reporting at battalion headquarters in Bethune. In a largedusky orderly room in--was it a wine-merchant's warehouse?--the Colonelshook hands with me. I observed that he was wearing dark brown fieldboots, small in the leg, and insinuating by every supple contour thatthey came from Craxwell. And since the world is a proverbially smallplace, there was, I hope, nothing incredible in the fact that theColonel was a distant relative of Colonel Hesmon, and had heard allabout how I won the Colonel's Cup. It will be remembered that ColonelHesmon's conversational repertoire was a limited one, so it wasn't to bewondered at that my new Commanding Officer could tell me the name of myhorse, or that I was already well acquainted with his name, which wasWinchell. For the old Colonel had frequently referred to the exploits ofhis dashing young relative.

I mention this mainly because my first few minutes with my unit inFrance transported me straight back to England and the Ringwell Hunt.Unfortunately, the migration was entirety mental; my physical feet tookme straight along a pavé road for about three miles, to Le Hamel,where my company was in billets. Anyhow, it was to my advantage that Iwas already known to Colonel Winchell as a hunting man. For I alwaysfound that it was a distinct asset, when in close contact with officersof the Regular Army, to be able to converse convincingly about hunting.It gave one an almost unfair advantage in some ways.

Mansfield (who had been received with reservations of cordiality), Dick(persona grata on account of his having been at Sandhurst, and alsobecause no one could possibly help liking him at sight), and I (nocomment required) were all posted to "C" company which was short ofofficers. The battalion had lately been much below full strength, andwas now being filled up with drafts. We had arrived at a good time, forour Division was about to be withdrawn to a back area for a long rest.And the Givenchy trenches on the La Bassée Canal had taken their toll incasualties. For the time being the Western Front received us intocomparative comfort and domesticity. We found Captain Barton, thecompany commander, by a stove (which was smoking badly) in a small tiledroom on the ground floor of a small house on the road from Bethune toFestubert. The smoke made my eyes water, but otherwise things were quitecheerful. We all slept on the floor, the hardness and coldness of whichmay be imagined. But then, as always, my sleeping-bag (or 'flea-bag' aswe called it) was a good friend to me, and we were in clover comparedwith the men: (no one who was in the War need be reminded of thatunavoidable circumstance).

Barton (like all the battalion officers except the C.O., theSecond-in-Command, and the quartermaster, and four or five subalternsfrom Sandhurst) was a civilian. He was big, burly, good-natured, andeasygoing; had been at Harrow and, until the War, had lived acomfortably married life on an adequate unearned income. He was, infact, a man of snug and domesticated habits and his mere presence(wearing pince-nez) in a front line trench made one feel that itought, at any rate, to be cosy. Such an inherently amicable man asBarton was a continual reminder of the incongruity of war with everydayhumanity. In the meantime he was making gallant efforts to behaveprofessionally, and keep his end up as a company commander. But thatstove had no business to be making the room uninhabitable with itssuffocating fumes. It really wasn't fair on a chap like old Barton, whohad always been accustomed to a bright fire and a really good glass ofport....

So my company received me; and for an infantry subaltern the hugeunhappy mechanism of the Western Front always narrowed down to thecompany he was in. My platoon accepted me apathetically. It was adiminished and exhausted little platoon, and its mind was occupied withanticipations of 'Divisional Rest.'

To revert to my earlier fact, "got to Bethune by half-past ten," it maywell be asked how I can state the time of arrival so confidently. Myauthority is the diary which I began to keep when I left England. Yes; Ikept a diary, and I intend to quote from it (though the material whichit contains is meagre). But need this be amplified?...

"Thursday. Went on working-party, 3 to 10.30 p.m. Marched toFestubert, a ruined village, shelled to bits. About 4.30, in darknessand rain, started up half a mile of light-railway lines through marsh,with sixty men. Then they carried hurdles up the communication trenches,about three quarters of a mile, which took two hours. Flares went upfrequently; a few shells, high overhead, and exploding far behind us.The trenches are very wet. Finally emerged at a place behind the first-and second-line trenches, where new trenches (with 'high-commandbreastworks') are being dug.

"Saturday. Working-party again. Started 9.45 p.m. in bright moonlightand iron frost. Dug 12--2. Men got soup in ruined house at Festubert,with the moon shining through matchwood skeleton rafters. Up behind thetrenches, the frost-bound morasses and ditches and old earthworks inmoonlight, with dusky figures filing across the open, hobbling to avoidslipping. Home 4.15.

"Sunday. Same as Saturday. Dug 12--2. Very cold.

"Monday. Went with working-party at 3 p.m. Wet day. Awful mud. Triedto dig, till 7.30, and came home soaked. Back 9.45. Beastly night forthe men, whose billets are wretched."

I can see myself coming in, that last night, with Julian Durley, a shy,stolid-faced platoon commander who had been a clerk in Somerset House.He took the men's discomforts very much to heart. Simple andunassertive, he liked sound literature, and had a sort of metropolitanturn of humour. His jokes, when things were going badly, reminded me ofa facetious bus conductor on a wet winter day. Durley was an inspirationtoward selfless patience. He was an ideal platoon officer, and anexample which I tried to imitate from that night onward. I need hardlysay that he had never hunted. He could swim like a fish, but no socialstatus was attached to that.

[II]

When I had been with the battalion a week we moved away from the LaBassée sector at nine o'clock on a fine bright morning. In spite of myquite mild experiences there, I felt that I'd seen more than enough ofthat part of the country. Barton and Durley and young Ormand (who wasnow second-in-command of the company) were always talking about theGivenchy trenches and how their dug-out had been "plastered withtrench-mortars and whizz-bangs." Now that they were out of it theyseemed to take an almost morbid delight in remembering their escapes. Noone knew where we were moving to, but the quartermaster had told Bartonthat we might be going south. 'New Army' battalions were beginning toarrive in France, and the British line was being extended.

On our second day's march (we had done ten kilometres to a comfortablebillet the first day) we passed an infantry brigade of Kitchener's Army.It was raining; the flat dreary landscape was half-hidden by mist, andthe road was liquid mud. We had fallen out for a halt when they passedus. Four after four they came, some of them wearing the steelbasin-helmets which were new to the English armies then. The helmetsgave them a Chinese look. To tell the truth, their faces looked sullen,wretched, and brutal as they sweated with their packs under glisteningwaterproof capes. Worried civilian officers on horses, young-lookingsubalterns in new rainproof trench-coats; and behind the trudging columnthe heavy transport horses plodding through the sludge, straining attheir loads, and the stolid drivers munching, smoking, grinning, yellingcoarse gibes at one another. It was the War all right, and they weregoing in the direction of it.

Late that afternoon I walked out a little way from our billets. In thebrooding stillness I watched the willows and poplars, and the gleamingdykes which reflected the faint flush of a watery sunset. A heron sailedslowly away across the misty flats of ploughed land. Twilight deepened,and a flicker of star-shells wavered in the sky beyond Bethune. The skyseemed to sag heavily over Flanders; it was an oppressive, soul-cloggingcountry, I thought, as I went back to our company mess in the squalidvillage street, to find Dick polishing his pipe against his nose, Ormandand Mansfield playing 'nap,' and Durley soberly reading The Cloisterand the Hearth in an Everyman edition. Already we were quite a happyfamily. 'Old Man Barton,' as we called him, had gone out to invite theQuartermaster to dinner with us. Until that evening I had only seen theQ.M. from a distance, but I was already aware that he was the bedrock ofthe battalion (as befitted one on whom we relied for our rations). I sawhim clearly for what he was, on that first evening (though not soclearly as I can see him now).

Joe Dottrell had been quartermaster-sergeant before the War; he was nowActing Quartermaster, with the rank of captain, since the real Q.M. hadfaded away into a 'cushy job' at Army Headquarters. (He had, in fact,found that haven before the battalion went into action at the firstbattle of Ypres, whence it had emerged with eighty-five men and oneofficer--Joe Dottrell.) Whatever might happen Joe was always there, andhe never failed to get the rations up; no bombardment could haveprevented him doing that. And what those 'dixies' of hot tea signifiedno one knows who wasn't there to wait for them. He was a small, spareman--a typical 'old soldier.' He had won his D.C.M. in South Africa, andhad a row of ribbons to match his face, which was weather-beaten andwhiskyfied to purple tints which became blue when the wind was cold.

Joe Dottrell now entered, his cap hiding his bald brow, and hisBritish-warm coat concealing his medal ribbons, and old man Bartonbeaming beside him.

"I've brought Dottrell in to jolly you all up," he said, with hisnervous giggle. "Have a drink, Joe," he continued, holding up a squatbottle of 'Old Vatted Highland.'

"Well, my lucky lads!" exclaimed Joe, in his Lancashire voice.

Accepting the proffered glass he wished us all 'the best,' and hispresence gave us just that sense of security which we were in need of.But something went wrong in the kitchen, and the dinner was a disgrace.Barton 'strafed' the servants until they were falling over one another,but Dottrell said the toasted cheese wasn't too bad, and "There's worsethings in the world than half-warmed Maconochie," he remarked.(Maconochie, it will be remembered, was a tinned compound of meat andvegetables; but perhaps it has survived the War. If so, it has mysympathy.)

* * * * * * *

Next day we took it easy. The day after that we travelled to ourdestination. I have been looking at the map. The distance, by a straightline, was fifty miles. Sixty-five, perhaps, by road; an easy threehours' drive for the Divisional General in his car. Not so easy for therank and file, whose experiences of migration were summarized well andtruly by a private soldier, in a simple sentence which once met my eyewhile I was censoring the correspondence of my platoon. "Our companyhave been for a bath to-day and had a clean shirt given us and socks. Wehad to march five miles each way, so we had a good walk for it didn'twe? My feet are minus all the top skin. Everywhere we go seems such along way." In those last words one infantry private speaks for themall.

Our big move to the back area began at six a.m. We had to be up by then,for our kits had to be packed and ready by half-past seven. As soon aswe had eaten our bacon and eggs in the stuffy billet by the light of acandle, the officers' servants began to pack up the tin plates anddishes, and I remember how I went out alone into the first grey of themorning and up the village street with the cocks crowing. I walkedslowly up to some higher ground with a view of woods and steeples andcolliery chimneys: rooks were cawing in some tall trees against thefaint colours of a watery daybreak, and the curé came out of his gatein a garden wall and said good-morning to me as he passed. It was Sundaymorning, and by eight o'clock there was a sound of church bells from farand near. Then a troop of mules and horses clattered along the road attheir morning exercise, some of them led by turbaned Indians. I sat on amilestone and watched the sun come out, and a thrush sang a little wayoff--the first I'd heard in France. But solitude was scanty and preciousin the Army, and at half-past ten I was on parade.

We marched two miles into Lillers and entrained. The train started atnoon. Ten hours later we detrained at a station three miles from Amiens.We had averaged four miles an hour, and it was now after ten; a dark,still night, with a little rain at times. Men, transport horses,officers' chargers, limbers, and field-kitchens (known as 'the cookers')were unloaded. All this took two hours. We had some tea.... If Icould taste that tea out of the dixies now I should write it all verymuch as it was. Living spontaneity would be revived by that tea, thetaste of which cannot be recovered by any effort of memory.

Fifteen minutes after midnight we moved off. It was rumoured that we hadonly a few miles to go. On we went to the steady beat of the drums,halting for ten minutes at the end of each fifty. After the second haltthe road seemed to become more hilly. About once in an hour we passedthrough a dark sleeping village. There was a lamp hung on a limber inthe rear of the column. Twice I saw our shadows thrown on a white wallin a village. The first time it was a few colossal heads with lurchingshoulders and slung rifles; and a second time, on a dead white wall, itwas a line of legs; legs only; huge legs striding away from us as ifjeering at our efforts to keep going. Movement became mechanical, and Ifound myself falling asleep as I walked. The men had the weight of theirpacks and equipment to keep them awake!

A little after six, just before it began to get light, we halted for thesixth time in a small town with a fine church. I sat on the steps at thechurch door with Dick beside me. Barton came and told us that we hadanother five kilometres to go "up a high hill." How we managed it Ican't say, but an hour afterwards we entered a straggling village on thewooded uplands. As we hobbled in we were met by the Quartermaster, whohad got there a few hours ahead of us with the Interpreter (aspindle-shanked Frenchman with a gentle soul and a large militarymoustache--exiled, poor man, from his jewelery shop at Pau).

As we were the first troops who had ever been billeted in the village,old Joe and Monsieur Perrineau had been having quite a lively time withthe rustic inhabitants, who had been knocked up out of their beds andwere feeling far from amiable as regards the Flintshire Fusiliers.Having seen the men into their ramshackle barns we sorted ourselves outinto our own billets. Dick and I shared a small room in an emptycottage. My diary informs me that I slept from eleven till five. We hadmarched sixteen miles. It was no easy matter to move an infantrybattalion fifty miles. Let those who tour the continent in theircomfortable cars remember it and be thankful.

[III]

Dick and I and Mansfield were starting our active service with apeaceful interlude which we had no right to expect. We had 'struck itlucky' as Mansfield remarked. Young Ormand made round eyes under hisdark eyebrows as he gloated over the difference between Divisional Restand those ruddy Givenchy trenches. He was a sturdy little public-schoolboy who made no secret of his desire to avoid appearing in the Roll ofHonour. He wanted life, and he appeared capable of making good use ofit, if allowed the opportunity. Dick remained silent; he usually kepthis thoughts to himself, confirming other people's opinions with one ofhis brilliant smiles and the trustful look which he carried in his greyeyes. Julian Durley, too contented for speech, stretched his handstoward the blazing wood fire which crackled cheerfully while the windblustered comfortably around the cottage.

We were all five of us sitting round the fire in my billet, which had agood open grate, a few pieces of old furniture, and a clock which tickedsedately, as if there were no war on. The owner of the cottage was withthe French army. There wasn't a man in the village under forty, and mostof them looked gaffers of seventy. They complained that the Battalionwas burning all their wood, but firewood was plentiful, since thevillage was only half a mile from a small forest, and there were treesall round it. This, and its rural remoteness, gave it an air of avoidingconscription. While we were sitting there, my servant Flook (who hadbeen a railway signalman in Lancashire) blundered in at the door with ahuge sack of firewood, which he dropped on the tiled floor with a gaspof relief and an exclamation, in the war jargon which is so difficult toremember, which made us all laugh. He explained that the people had beenplaying up hell to the Interpreter, so he'd slipped round to an adjacentwoodstack as soon as it was dark to get some more of the "stoof" beforethe trouble began. Having emptied the sack in a corner he went out foranother cargo.

Memories of our eight weeks at Montagne are blurred, like the war jargonwhich was around me then. I remember it by the light of a couple ofration candles, stuck in bottles; for our evenings were almost homely,except on the few occasions when we went out for a couple of hours ofnight-work. And even that was quite good fun, especially when old manBarton dropped his pince-nez in the middle of a wood. Mansfield's luridlanguage was another source of amusement. By daylight we were "trainingfor open warfare." Colonel Winchell was very much on his toes and intenton impressing the Brigadier with his keenness and efficiency. Hepersistently preached "open warfare" at us, prophesying a "big advance"in the spring.

So we did outpost schemes at the forest's edge, and open-order attacksacross wheat-fields and up the stubbled slopes, while sandy haresgalloped away, and an old shepherd, in a blue frieze cloak with apointed hood, watched us from the nook where he was avoiding the wind.

Every evening, at sunset, the battalion fifes and drums marched down thevillage street with martial music to signify that another day was at anend and the Flintshire Fusiliers in occupation. Ploughmen with theirgrey teams drove a last furrow on the skyline; windmills spun theirsails merrily; rooks came cawing home from the fields; pigeons circledabove farmstead stacks with whistling sober-hued wings; and the oldshepherd drove his sheep and goats into the village, tootling on a pipe.Sometimes a rampart of approaching rain would blot out the distance, butthe foreground would be striped with vivid green, lit with a gleam ofsun, and an arc of iridescence spanned the slate-coloured cloud. The Warwas fifty kilometres away, though we could hear the big guns boomingbeyond the horizon.

I was happy as I trudged along the lanes in the column, with my platoonchattering behind me and everything gilt with the sun's good humour.Happier still when I borrowed the little black mare no one could rideand cantered about the open country by myself, which I did two or threeafternoons a week. The black mare was well-bred, but had lost the use ofone eye. She had a queer temper, and had earned an evil reputation bykicking various officers off or bolting back to the transport lines withthem after going half a mile quite quietly. She was now used as apack-pony for carrying ammunition, but by gentle treatment I gained herconfidence and she soon became a sort of active-service echo of my oldfavourites. Dick rode out with me as often as he could persuade theTransport Officer to let him have a horse.

When riding alone I explored the country rather absent-mindedly,meditating on the horrors which I had yet to experience: I was unable toreconcile that skeleton certainty with the serenities of this winterlandscape--clean-smelling, with larks in the sky, the rich brown gloomof distant woods, and the cloud shadows racing over the lit and dappledlevels of that widespread land. And then I would pass a grey-roofedchâteau, with its many windows and no face there to watch me pass. Onlya bronze lion guarding the well in the middle of an overgrown lawn, andthe whole place forlorn and deserted. Once, as I was crossing the mainroad from Abbeville to Beauvais, I watched the interminable column of aFrench army corps which was moving southward. For the first time I sawthe famous French field-guns--the '75's.'

But even then it wasn't easy to think of dying.... Still less so whenDick was with me, and we were having an imitation hunt. I used topretend to be hunting a pack of hounds, with him as my whipper-in.Assuming a Denis Milden manner (Denis was at Rouen with the cavalry andlikely to remain there, in spite of the C.O.'s assumptions about openwarfare), I would go solemnly through a wood, cheering imaginary hounds.After an imaginary fox had been found, away we'd scuttle, looking invain for a fence to jump, making imaginary casts after an imaginarycheck, and losing our fox when the horses had done enough galloping. Animaginary kill didn't appeal to me, somehow. Once, when I was emergingrapidly from a wood with loud shouts, I came round a corner and nearlyknocked the Brigadier off his horse. He was out for a ride with hisstaff-captain; but no doubt he approved of my sporting make-believe, andI didn't dare to stop for apologies, since the Brigadier was a verygreat man. Dick enjoyed these outings and was much impressed by myhunting noises. The black mare seemed to enjoy it also.

Thus, in those delusive surroundings, I reverted fictitiously to thejaunts and jollities of peace-time, fabricating for my young friend alight-hearted fragment of the sport which he had not lived long enoughto share. It was queer, though, when we met some of the black-beardedBengal Lancers who were quartered in one of the neighbouring villages.What were they doing among these wooded ridges with the little roadswinding away over the slopes, toward a low yellow sunset and the nowhereof life reprieved to live out its allotted span?

* * * * * * *

Christmas came--a day of disciplined insobriety--and the First Battalionentered 1916 in a state of health and happiness. But it was ahand-to-mouth happiness, preyed upon by that remote noise of artillery;and as for health--well, we were all of us provisionally condemned todeath in our own thoughts, and if anyone had been taken seriously illand sent back to 'Blighty' he would have been looked upon as lucky. Foranybody who allowed himself to think things over, the only way out of itwas to try and feel secretly heroic, and to look back on the old life aspointless and trivial. I used to persuade myself that I had 'foundpeace' in this new life. But it was a peace of mind which resulted froma physically healthy existence combined with a sense ofirresponsibility. There could be no turning back now; one had to do asone was told. In an emotional mood I could glory in the idea of thesupreme sacrifice.

But where was the glory for the obscure private who was always introuble with the platoon sergeant and got 'medicine and duty' when hewent to the medical officer with rheumatism? He had enlisted 'for theduration' and had a young wife at home. It was all very well for ColonelWinchell to be lecturing in the village schoolroom on the offensivespirit, and the spirit of the regiment, but everyone knew that he wasbooked for a brigade, and some said that he'd bought a brigadier'sgold-peaked cap last time he was on leave.

When I instructed my platoon, one or two evenings a week, I confinedmyself to asking them easy questions out of the infantry trainingmanual, saying that we had got to win the War (and were certain to), andreading the League Football news aloud. I hadn't begun to question therights and wrongs of the War then; and if I had, nothing would have beengained by telling my platoon about it--apart from the grave breach ofdiscipline involved in such heart-searchings.

Early in the New Year the first gas-masks were issued. Every morning wepracticed putting them on, transforming ourselves into grotesquegoggle-faced creatures as we tucked the grey flannel under our tunics influstered haste. Those masks were an omen. An old wood-cutter in highleather leggings watched us curiously, for we were doing our gas-drillon the fringes of the forest, with its dark cypresses among the leaflessoaks and beeches, and a faint golden light over all.

One Sunday in January I got leave to go into Amiens. (A rambling traintook an hour and a half to do the eighteen-mile journey.) Dick went withme. After a good lunch we inspected the Cathedral, which was a contrastto the life we had been leading. But it was crowded with sight-seeingBritish soldiers: the kilted 'Jocks' walked up and down the nave as ifthey had conquered France, and I remember seeing a Japanese officer flitin with curious eyes. The long capes which many of the soldiers woregave them a mediaeval aspect, insolent and overbearing. But thebackground was solemn and beautiful. White columns soared into lilies oflight, and the stained-glass windows harmonized with the chanting voicesand the satisfying sounds of the organ. I glanced at Dick and thoughtwhat a Galahad he looked (a Galahad who had got his school colours forcricket).

Back in the company mess at Montagne we found the Quartermaster talkingto Barton, who was looking none too bright, for old Joe seemed to thinkthat we might be moving back to the Line any day now.

Young Ormand had got his favourite record going on his littlegramophone. That mawkish popular song haunts me whenever I amremembering the War in these after-days:

And when I told them how wonderful you were
They wouldn't believe me; they wouldn't believe me;
Your hands, your eyes, your lips, your hair,
Are in a class beyond compare...

and so on. His records were few, and all were of a similar kind. I wouldhave liked to hear a Handel violin sonata sometimes; there was that onewhich Kreisler had played the first time I heard him.... And I'd haveliked to hear Aunt Evelyn playing 'The Harmonious Blacksmith' on thatSunday evening when we began to pull ourselves together for 'theLine.'... In her last letter she had said how long the winter seemed, inspite of being so busy at the local hospital. She was longing for thespring to come again. "Spring helps one so much in life." (In thespring, I thought, the 'Big Push' will begin.) Her chief bit of news wasthat Dixon was in France. Although he had enlisted in the ArmyVeterinary Corps he was now attached to the Army Service Corps, and wasa sergeant. "He seems quite happy, as he has charge of a lot of horses,"she wrote. I wondered whether there was any chance of my seeing him, butit seemed unlikely. Anyhow, I would try to find out where he was, assoon as I knew where our division was going. Dottrell thought we werefor the Somme trenches, which had lately been taken over from theFrench.

* * * * * * *

But before we left Montagne Colonel Winchell sent for me and told me totake over the job of Transport Officer. This was an anti-climax, for itmeant that I shouldn't go into the trenches. The late Transport Officerhad gone on leave, and now news had come that he had been transferred toa reserve battalion in England. Mansfield remarked that "God seemed towatch over some people." He seemed to be watching over me too. Everybodyin "C" company mess expressed magnanimous approval of my appointment,which was considered appropriate, on account of my reputation as afox-hunting man. I entered on my new duties with 'new-broom' energy. Andthe black mare was now mine to ride every day. For the time being Iremained with "C" company mess, but when we got to the Line I shouldlive with Dottrell and the Interpreter. It was a snug little job whichwould have suited Barton down to the ground.

There was one thing which worried me; I disliked the idea of Dick goinginto the front line while I stayed behind. I said so, and he told me notto be an old chump. So we had a last ride round the woods, and the nextmorning, which was raw and foggy, we turned our backs on the littlevillage. The First Battalion never had such a peaceful eight weeks againfor the remainder of the War.

We crossed the Somme at Picquigny: after that we were in country unknownto us. I rode along with the rattle and rumble of limber and waggonwheels, watching the patient dun-coloured column winding away in front;conscious of what they were marching to, I felt myself stronglyidentified with this queer community, which still contained a fewsurvivors from the original Expeditionary Force battalion which had'helped to make history' at Ypres in October 1914. Most of the oldsoldiers were on the strength of the Transport, which numbered aboutsixty.

On the roll of the Transport were drivers, officers' grooms, brakesmen,and the men with the nine pack animals which carried ammunition. Thenthere was the transport-sergeant (on whose efficiency my fate depended),his corporal, and a farrier-corporal; and those minor specialists, theshoeing-smith, saddler, carpenter, and cook. Our conveyances were the G.S. wagon (with an old driver who took ceaseless pride in his horses andthe shining up of his steel-work), the mess wagon (carrying officers'kits, which were strictly limited in weight), the company cookers (whichlurched cumbersomely along with the men's dinners stewing away all thetime), the water-cart and a two-wheeled vehicle known as 'the Maltesecart' (which carried a special cargo connected with the Quartermaster'sstores and was drawn by an aged pony named Nobbie). There were also thelimbers, carrying the machine-guns and ammunition.

The transport-sergeant was a Herefordshire man who could easily bevisualized as a farmer driving to market in his gig. The C.O. had toldme that the transport had been getting rather slack and neededsmartening up; but I was already aware that Dottrell and thetransport-sergeant could have managed quite easily without myenthusiastic support; they knew the whole business thoroughly, and all Icould do was to keep an eye on the horses, which were a very moderateassortment, though they did their work well enough.

So far I have said next to nothing about the officers outside my owncompany, and there is nothing to be said about them while they are ontheir way to the Line, except that their average age was abouttwenty-five, and that I had known the majority of them at Clitherland.It was a more or less untried battalion which marched across the Sommethat misty morning. But somehow its original spirit survived, fortifiedby those company sergeant-majors and platoon sergeants whose duties wereso exacting; how much depended on them only an ex-infantry officer cansay for certain; according to my own experience, everything depended onthem. But the Army was an interdependent concern, and when the Brigadiermet us on the road Colonel Winchell's face assumed a differentexpression of anxiety from the one which it wore when he was ridingimportantly up and down the column with the Adjutant at his heels. (TheAdjutant, by the way, became a Roman Catholic priest after the War, andit doesn't surprise me that he felt the need for a change of mentalatmosphere.) The Brigadier, in his turn, became a more or less meek andconciliatory man when he encountered the Division General. And so on, upto Field-Marshal French, who was then reigning at St-Omer (with many asocially eligible young man to assist him).

We went thirteen miles that day. I remember, soon after we started onthe second day, passing the end of an avenue, at the far end of whichthere was an enticing glimpse of an ancient château. My heart went outto that château: it seemed to symbolize everything which we were leavingbehind us. But it was a bright morning, and what had I got to complain,riding cockily along on my one-eyed mare while Dick was trudging infront of his platoon?...

On the third day, having marched thirty-three miles altogether, weentered Morlancourt, a village in the strip of undulating landscapebetween the Somme and the Ancre rivers. This was our destination (untilthe next day, when the troops went up to the trenches, which were fouror five miles away). It was an ominous day, but the sun shone and theair felt keen; as we marched down to Morlancourt a flock of pigeonscircled above the roofs with the light shining through their wings. Itwas a village which had not suffered from shell-fire. Its turn camerather more than two years afterwards.

We were all kept busy that afternoon: Barton and the other companycommanders were harassed by continuous 'chits' from battalion H.Q. and,as young Ormand remarked when he came to leave his gramophone in mycare, "everyone had fairly got the breeze up." The only person whoshowed no sign of irritability was the Quartermaster, who continued tochaff M. Perrineau, with whom he stumped about the village mollifyingeveryone and putting difficulties to rights.

Late in the evening I was sent off to a hamlet a mile away to find out(from the billeting officer of the New Army battalion we were relievingnext day) certain details of routine connected with the transport ofrations to the Line. This billeting officer recognized me before Iremembered who he was. His name was Regel (which he now pronouncedRegal). I had forgotten his existence since we were at school together.He now dictated his methodical information, and when I had finishedscribbling notes about "water-trolley horses," "mule-stable just beyondfirst barricade," and so on, we talked for a while about old days.

"How's your cousin Willie?" I asked, for want of anything else to say.His chubby face looked embarrassed, and he replied (in a low voice, forthere were two other officers in the room), "He's on the other side--inthe artillery."...

I remembered then that Willie (a very nice boy) had always gone home toHanover for the holidays. And now he might be sending a five-nine shellover at us for all we, or he, knew. It was eleven o'clock when I gotback to Morlancourt. Dottrell was having a glass of rum and hot waterbefore turning in. He had already found out all the details which I hadscribbled in my notebook.

[IV]

Morlancourt was tucked away among the fold of long slopes and bareridges of ploughland. Five roads entered the village and each road, inits friendly convergence with the others, had its little crop of houses.There was a church with a slated tower and a gilt vane, round whichbirds wheeled and clacked. In the hollow ground in the middle, where thefive roads met, there was a congregation of farm buildings round an openspace with a pond on one side of it. It seemed a comfortable villagewhen one looked down on its red and grey roofs and its drab and ochrewalls.

The long lines of the high ground hid the rest of the world: on theridge one saw a few straggling trees, a team of greys ploughing ordredging, and some horsemen or a hooded farm-cart moving along the whiteedge of the skyline. The wind piped across the open, combing the thornbushes which grew under high banks, and soughing in isolated plane treesand aspens. It was a spacious landscape of distant objects delicatelydefined under an immense sky. The light swept across it in a nobleprogress of wind and cloud, and evening brought it mystery and sadness.At night the whole region became a dusk of looming slopes with lights ofvillage and bivouac picked out here and there, little sparks in theloneliness of time. And always the guns boomed a few miles away, and thedroning aeroplanes looked down on the white seams of the reserve trenchlines with their tangle of wires and posts.

Here, while the battalion began its 'tours of trenches' (six days in andfour days out), I had my meals comfortably with mild M. René Perrineauand Joe Dottrell. I slept in a canvas hut close to the transport lines,falling asleep to the roar and rattle of trench warfare four miles away,and waking to see, on sunny mornings, the shadows of birds flittingacross my canvas room, and to hear the whistling of starlings from thefruit trees and gables of the farm near by. After breakfast I would sitfor a while reading a book by the fire in Dottrell's billet, while thesoldier cook sang "I want to go to Michigan" at the top of his voiceabout three yards away. But however much he wanted to go to Michigan, hewas lucky not to be in the trenches, and so was I; and I knew it as Itoddled down to the transport lines to confer with Sergeant Hoskinsabout getting some carrots and greenstuff for the horses and indentingfor some new nosebags and neckpieces for the limber harness. Some of thehorses were looking hide-bound, and I promised the sergeant that I'd buya couple of hundred-weight of linseed for them when I went on leave.Linseed was a cosy idea; it reminded me of peace-time conditions.

Our serious activities began after lunch. At half-past two I mounted theblack mare, and old Joe soused himself into the saddle of his pony Susan(a veteran who had sustained a shrapnel wound on the near hip at thefirst battle of Ypres), and the transport moved off along the Bray roadwith the rations for the battalion. As the days lengthened theexpedition started later, for we couldn't go beyond Bray until afterdusk. It was a roundabout journey of seven miles, and if we started atthree we were never home before ten. But home we came, to find MonsieurPerrineau solacing himself with Ormand's gramophone: "But when I toldthem how wonderful you were" or "Just a little love, a little kiss":(Perrineau was hoping to go on leave soon, and his wife was waiting forhim at Pau).

There were times when I felt that I ought to be somewhere else; I alwayswent up to see my company, and when they were in the front line I wasreluctant to leave them. One night (during the second time they were in)I arrived while our batteries were busily retaliating after a heavyafternoon bombardment by the Germans. I had some difficulty in gettingup to the front line as the communication trenches were badly knockedabout. But I found the five "C" company officers none the worse forhaving been 'strafed' with trench-mortars, and my visit seemed to cheerthem. I came home across the open country that night (which saved threemiles), and it was a relief to leave it all behind me--the water-loggedtrenches, and men peering grimly at me from under their round helmets:riding home there was friendly gloom around me, while the rockets soaredbeyond the ridge and the machine-guns rattled out their mirthlesslaughter. I left the mare to find her way to the gap in the reservetrench line: (she never hesitated, though she had only been up that wayonce by daylight). I was seeing the War as a looker-on, it seemed.

* * * * * * *

I had written to Dixon, telling him all about my new job, and I nowreceived a reply. We were, apparently, in the same army corps, so hecouldn't be so very many miles away.

"I have been wondering, sir," he wrote, "whether it might possibly befixed up for me to exchange into your battalion as transport-sergeant.You say your sergeant has been in France since the beginning, so he'sdone his bit all right! It would be quite like old times for me to beyour transport-sergeant. That was a rotten business about Mr. Colwoodbeing killed, sir. We shall all miss him very much when this War isover."

Dixon's letter sent me off into pleasant imaginings; to have him near mewould make all the difference, I thought. Everything I had known beforethe War seemed to be withering away and falling to pieces. Denis seldomwrote to me, and he was trying to get a job on the Staff; but with Dixonto talk to I should still feel that the past was holding its own withthe War; and I wanted the past to survive and to begin again; the ideawas like daylight on the other side of this bad weather in which lifeand death had come so close to one another. I couldn't get used to theidea of Stephen being dead. And Denis had become so remote that I seldomremembered him, though I couldn't say why it was.

So, by the time I was showing Dottrell the letter, I had made up my mindthat Dixon's exchange was as good as settled. Joe read the letterthrough twice. "Your old groom must be a good sport," he remarkedpouring himself out a couple of inches of O.V.H. and adding a similaramount of water. "But it would take a deal of wangling to work hisexchange. And if you want my private opinion, young George, he'd farbetter stay where he is. We'll find ourselves in much less cushy placesthan this, and you say he's turned forty-five...." He handed me theletter. "And you might find yourself back with "C" company again if wehad some casualties. Things change pretty quick nowadays. And I don'tmind betting there'll be a few changes when Kinjack rolls up to takecommand of the battalion!"

I nodded wisely. For everyone now knew that Winchell had got hisbrigade, and Major Kinjack was expected (from the Second Battalion) in aweek or two. And Kinjack had a somewhat alarming reputation as adisciplinarian. He was, according to Dottrell, who had known him sincehe was a subaltern, "a bloody fine soldier but an absolute pig if yougot the wrong side of him." Old man Barton was in a twitter about thenew C.O., his only hope being, he said, that Kinjack would send him homeas incompetent. Barton came in at this moment, for the battalion hadreturned from the trenches the day before.

"Why, Barton," exclaimed Dottrell, "you look as if you'd just come outof quod!"

Barton's hair had been cut by an ex-barber (servant to the medicalofficer), who had borrowed a pair of horse-clippers to supplement hisscissors. Barton giggled and rubbed his cropped cranium. He said it madehim feel more efficient, and began to chaff Dick (who had come in to askif he might go for a ride with me that afternoon) about his beautifullybrushed hair. "Kinjack'll soon have the horse-clippers on your track,young man!" he said. Dick smiled and said nothing.

We arranged to go for a ride, and he went off to inspect the company'sdinners. When he had gone Barton remarked that he wished he could getDick to take more care of himself up in the Line. "I sent him out on ashort patrol two nights ago, but he stayed out there nearly an hour anda half and went right up to the Boche wire." Old Joe agreed that he wasa rare good lad; no cold feet about him; the country couldn't afford tolose many more like that....

And he got on to his favourite subject--'The Classes and the Masses.'For Joe had been brought up in the darkest part of Manchester, and heprided himself on being an old-fashioned socialist. But his Socialismwas complicated by his fair-minded cognizance of the good qualities ofthe best type of the officer class, with whom he had been in closecontact ever since he enlisted. He clenched a knotted fist. "This war,"he exclaimed in his husky voice, "is being carried on by the highest andthe lowest in land--the blue-blooded upper ten and the poor unfortunatepeople that some silly bastard called 'the Submerged Tenth.' All theothers are making what they can out of it and shirking the dirty work.Selfish hogs! And the politicians are no better."

"That's right, Joe. That's the stuff to give 'em!" said Barton.

And they both drank damnation to the (enigmatic) part of the populationwhich was leaving all the dirty work to the infantry. Theirgeneralizations, perhaps, were not altogether fair. There was quite alot of blue blood at G.H.Q. and Army Headquarters. And Mansfield andDurley, to name only two of our own officers, were undoubtedly membersof 'the middle class,' whatever that may be.

* * * * * * *

My ride with Dick was a great success. Over the rolling uplands andthrough an occasional strip of woodland, with the sun shining and bigclouds moving prosperously on a boisterous north-west wind, we rode to avillage six or seven miles away, and had tea at an unbelievable shopwhere the cakes were as good as anything in Amiens. I wouldn't like tosay how many we ate, but the evening star shone benevolently down on usfrom among a drift of rosy clouds while we were cantering home toMorlancourt. But about a fortnight later, when Dick was up in thetrenches, I received a letter in reply to the one I had sent Dixon.Someone informed me that Sergeant Dixon had died of pneumonia. MajorKinjack arrived to take command a day or two afterwards.

[V]

Lieutenant-Colonel Kinjack (to give him his new rank) exceeded all ourexpectations. He was the personification of military efficiency.Personal charm was not his strong point, and he made no pretension toit. He was aggressive and blatant, but he knew his job, and for that werespected him and were grateful. His predecessor had departed in hisBrigadier's cap without saying good-bye to anyone. For that we were lessgrateful; but as Dottrell said, "He'd had Brigadier on the brain eversince he came back off leave, and now he'd never be satisfied till he'dgot a Division and another decoration to go with it." Dottrell had justgot his D.S.O., so he had no cause to feel jealous, even if he had beencapable of that feeling, which he wasn't. His only complaint was thatthey didn't make his 'acting rank' permanent. He aired that grievanceseveral evenings a week, especially when he had got back late with theration party, and his reference to the 'permanent' Quartermaster (atArmy Headquarters) were far from flattering.

Colonel Kinjack stopped one night in Morlancourt, and on the followingafternoon I guided him up to the Line, going by the short cut across theopen country and the half-dug and feebly wired reserve trench which, wehoped, would never be utilized. The new C.O. had inspected the Transportin the morning without active disapproval, but he was less pleased whenour appearance on the ridge (half a mile behind the front line)attracted a few shells, none of which exploded near us. This wasconsidered quite a good joke in the battalion, and I was often remindedafterwards of how I'd got Kinjack welcomed with whizz-bangs.

"The Boches saw Kinjack coming all right. The Transport Officer madesure of that!" Barton would say, with a chuckle.

For in spite of my easy job, it was supposed that I could be a bit of adaredevil if I liked. Not that I wanted to be, that afternoon; Kinjackfrightened the life out of me, and was so sceptical of my ability tofind the way that I began to feel none too sure about it myself....It is, however, just conceivable that at that time I didn't care whathappened to the new Colonel or anybody else....

That same day, at about midnight, I was awakened by Dottrell, who toldme that I was to go on leave next morning. I drove to the station in theMaltese cart; the train started at 9.30, crawled to Havre, and by teno'clock next day I was in London. I had been in France less than fourmonths. As regards war experience I felt a bit of an impostor. I hadnoticed that officers back from their ten days' leave were usuallysomewhat silent about it. Then, after a few weeks, they began to lookforward to their next leave again, and to talk about this future fact.But there wasn't much to be said about mine, for it was bitterly coldand a heavy fall of snow knocked my hopes of hunting on the head. So Iremained quietly with Aunt Evelyn at Butley, telling myself that it wasa great luxury to have a hot bath every day, and waiting for a thaw. Ifit thawed I should have two or three days with the Ringwell on ColonelHesmon's horses. And I should stay at Hoadley Rectory. But no thaw came,and I returned to France without having been to the Rectory, which hadbeen a painful idea, in any case. The Rector evidently felt the same,for he wrote me a sad letter in which he said "as I think of all thesuffering and death, the anxieties and bereavements of this terriblestruggle, I feel that in our ignorance we can only rest on the words,'What I do thou knowest not now but thou shalt know hereafter.'Obedience and self-sacrifice for right and truth in spite of sufferingand death is Christianity...." I received this letter on my last dayat Butley. Sitting alone in the schoolroom late at night, I felt touchedby the goodness and patience of my old friend, but I was unable toaccept his words in the right spirit. He spoke too soon. I was too youngto understand. And England wasn't what it used to be. I had been over tosay good-bye to Captain Huxtable that afternoon; but the War was makingan old man of him, though he did his best to be bright. And kind AuntEvelyn talked bitterly about the Germans and called them 'hell-hounds.'I found myself defending them, although I couldn't claim acquaintancewith a single one of them (except Willie Regel, and I shouldn't haveknown him by sight if I'd met him).

Looking round the room at the enlarged photographs of my hunters, Ibegan to realize that my past was wearing a bit thin. The War seemed tohave made up its mind to obliterate all those early adventures of mine.Point-to-point cups shone, but without conviction. And Dixon wasdead....

Perhaps, after all, it was better to be back with the battalion. Theonly way to forget about the War was to be on the other side of theChannel. But the fire burnt brightly and the kettle was hissing on thehob. It was nice to be wearing my old civilian clothes, and to makemyself a cup of tea. Old Joe will be on his way home with the transportnow, I thought, contrasting my comfort with him joggling along the Brayroad in this awful weather. His bronchitis had been bad lately, too.Dick was a thought which I repressed. He would be getting his leavesoon, anyhow.... The Rector said we were fighting for right andtruth; but it was no use trying to think it all out now. There werethose things to take back for the others--a bottle of old brandy forDottrell and some smoked salmon for "C" company mess--I mustn't make anymistake about that when I get to town in the morning, I thought....

And the next evening I was on the boat at Southampton; the weather hadturned mild again; it was a quiet evening; I watched the red and greenlights across the harbour, and listened to the creaking cries of thegulls, like the sound of windlasses and pulleys, as they swooped incircles or settled on the smooth dusk of the water. From the town camethe note of a bugle, a remote call, like the last thought of home. Andthen we were churning across the dark sea, to find France still undersnow.

* * * * * * *

There was a continuous rumble and grumble of bombardment while we weregoing up with the rations on the day after I got back from leave. As wecame over the hill beyond Bray the darkness toward Albert was lit withthe glare of explosions that blinked and bumped. Dottrell remarked thatthere seemed to be a bit of a mix-up, which was his way of saying thathe didn't altogether like the look of things that evening.

When we arrived at the ration dump the quartermaster-sergeant told usthat the battalion had been standing-to for the past two hours. It waspossible that the Boches might be coming across. "C" company was in thefront line. The noise was subsiding, so I went up there, leaving Joe topay his nightly call at battalion headquarters.

Stumbling and splashing up a communication trench known as CanterburyAvenue, with the parcel of smoked salmon stuffed into my haversack, Ifelt that smoked salmon wasn't much of an antidote for people who hadbeen putting up with all that shell-fire. Still, it was something....Round the next corner I had to flatten myself against the wall of thatwet ditch, for someone was being carried down on a stretcher. An extrastretcher-bearer walking behind told me it was Corporal Price of "C"company. "A rifle-grenade got him... looks as if he's a goner...."His face was only a blur of white in the gloom; then, with the drummingof their boots on the trenchboards, Corporal Price left the War behindhim. I remembered him vaguely as a quiet little man in Durley's platoon.No use offering him smoked salmon, I thought, as I came to the top ofCanterbury Avenue, and, as usual, lost my way in the maze of saps andsmall trenches behind the front line. Watling Street was the one Iwanted. Finding one's way about the trenches in the dark was no easy jobwhen one didn't live up there. I passed the dugouts of the supportcompany at Maple Redoubt. Candles and braziers glinted through thecurtain-flaps and voices muttered gruffly from the little undergroundcabins (which would have been safer if they had been deeper down in theearth). Now and again there was the splitting crack of a rifle-shot fromthe other side, or a five-nine shell droned serenely across the upperair to burst with a hollow bang; voluminous reverberations rolled alongthe valley. The shallow blanching flare of a rocket gave me a glimpse ofthe mounds of bleached sandbags on the Redoubt. Its brief whiteness dieddownward, leaving a dark world; chilly gusts met me at corners, pipingdrearily through crannies of the parapet; very different was the voiceof the wind that sang in the cedar tree in the garden at home....

Pushing past the gas-blanket, I blundered down the stairs to the companyheadquarters' dug-out. There were twenty steps to that earthly smellingden, with its thick wooden props down the middle and its precariousyellow candlelight casting wobbling shadows. Barton was sitting on a boxat the rough table, with a tin mug and a half-empty whisky bottle. Hisshoulders were hunched and the collar of his trench-coat was turned upto his ears. Dick was in deep shadow, lying on a bunk (made ofwire-netting with empty sandbags on it). It was a morose cramped littlescene, loathsome to live in as it is hateful to remember. The air wasdank and musty; lumps of chalk fell from the 'ceiling' at intervals.There was a bad smell of burnt grease, and the frizzle of somethingfrying in the adjoining kennel that was called the kitchen was the onlyevidence of ordinary civilization--that and Barton's shining pince-nez,and the maps and notebooks which were on the table....

Smoked salmon from Piccadilly Circus was something after all. It cheeredBarton immensely. He unpacked it; he sniffed it; and no doubt it broughtthe lights of London into his mind.

"Gosh, if only this war would stop!" he exclaimed. "I'd be off toScott's oyster-bar like a streak of light and you'd never get me awayfrom it again!"

He held the smoked salmon under Dick's nose and told him what a luckyyoung devil he was to be going on leave in two or three days' time. Dickwasn't as bright as usual; he'd got a rotten headache, he said. Bartontold him he'd better let Ormand go out with the wiring-party instead ofhim. But he said no, he'd be all right by then, and Ormand had been outlast night. Barton told me they'd had a lively time with the C.O.lately: "He gave orders for the whole of the front line to be rewired;we've been at it every night, but he came up this morning with his bigperiscope, strafing like hell about the gaps along by the mine-craters.He says the wire isn't strong enough to stop a wheelbarrow--why awheelbarrow God knows!" He laughed, rather hysterically; his nerves wereon edge, and no wonder.... For, as he said, what with the muckeverything was in since the snow melted, and being chivvied by Kinjack,and then being 'crumped' all the afternoon, life hadn't been worthliving lately. The odd thing was that good old Barton seemed equallyconcerned because the snowy weather had prevented me from having anyhunting while on leave. And Dick agreed that it had been very rough onme.

Mansfield and Ormand came in at that moment; these two were very goodfriends, and they always seemed to be cheering one another up. They hadleft Durley on duty in the front trench. They wanted to hear all aboutthe 'shows' I had been to in London, but I couldn't tell them anything(though I wished I could), for I hadn't been to a theatre, and it was nouse talking about the Symphony Concert at Queen's Hall, which now mademe feel rather a prig.

Dick was still lying in his dark corner when I said good-night andgroped my way up the steps, leaving them to make the most of the smokedsalmon. Going down Canterbury Avenue it was so pitch black that Icouldn't see my own hand; once or twice a flare went up in the spectralregion on the shoulder of the hill behind me; lit by that unearthlyglare the darkness became desolation.

* * * * * * *

Coming up from the transport lines at twelve o'clock next morning Ifound Joe Dottrell standing outside the Quartermaster's stores. His facewarned me to expect bad news. No news could have been worse. Dick hadbeen killed. He had been hit in the throat by a rifle bullet while outwith the wiring-party, and had died at the dressing-station a few hoursafterwards. The battalion doctor had been a throat specialist before theWar, but this had not been enough.

The sky was angry with a red smoky sunset when we rode up with therations. Later on, when it was dark, we stood on the bare slope justabove the ration dump while the Brigade chaplain went through his words;a flag covered all that we were there for; only the white stripes on theflag made any impression on the dimness of the night. Once thechaplain's words were obliterated by a prolonged burst of machine-gunfire; when he had finished, a trench-mortar 'cannister' fell a fewhundred yards away, spouting the earth up with a crash.... A sack waslowered in the hole in the ground. The sack was Dick. I knew Death then.

* * * * * * *

A few days later, when the battalion was back at Morlancourt, andKinjack was having a look round the Transport lines, he remarked that hewasn't sure that I wasn't rather wasted as Transport Officer. "I'd muchrather be with 'C' Company, sir." Some sort of anger surged up inside meas I said it.... He agreed. No doubt he had intended me to return tomy platoon.

* * * * * * *

[VI]

Easter was late in April that year; my first three tours of trenchesoccupied me during the last thirty days of Lent. This essential seasonin the Church calendar was not, as far as I remember, remarked upon byanyone in my company, although the name of Christ was often on our lips,and Mansfield (when a cannister made a mess of the trench not many yardsaway from him) was even heard to refer to our Saviour as "murry oldJesus!" These innocuous blasphemings of the holy name were a peculiarfeature of the War, in which the principles of Christianity were eitherobliterated or falsified for the convenience of all who were engaged init. Up in the trenches every man bore his own burden; the Sabbath wasnot made for man; and if a man laid down his life for his friends it wasno part of his military duties. To kill an enemy was an effectiveaction; to bring in one of own wounded was praise-worthy, but unrelatedto our war-aims. The Brigade chaplain did not exhort us to love ourenemies. He was content to lead off with the hymn "How sweet the name ofJesus sounds!"

I mention this war-time dilemma of the Churches because my own mind wasin rather a muddle at that time. I went up to the trenches with theintention of trying to kill someone. It was my idea of getting a bit ofmy own back. I did not say anything about it to anyone; but it was thisfeeling which took me out patrolling the mine-craters whenever anopportunity offered itself. It was a phase in my war experience--no moreirrational than the rest of the proceedings, I suppose; it was anoutburst of blind bravado which now seems paltry when I compare it withthe behaviour of an officer like Julian Durley, who did everything thatwas asked of him as a matter of course.

Lent, as I have said before, was not observed by us. But Barton gotsomewhere near observing it one evening. We had just returned to ourdug-out after the twilight ritual of 'standing-to.' The rations had comeup, and with them the mail. After reading a letter from his wife helooked at me and said: "O Kangar, how I wish I were a cathedralorganist!" (I was known as 'the Kangaroo' in "C" company.) His remark,which had no connection with any religious feeling, led us on topleasant reminiscences of cathedral closes. Nothing would be nicer, wethought, than to be sauntering back, after Evensong, to one of thosesnug old houses, with a book of anthems under our arms--preferably on amild evening toward the end of October. (In his civilian days Barton hadattended race meetings regularly; his musical experience had beenconfined to musical comedy.)

The mail that evening had brought me a parcel from Aunt Evelyn, whichcontained two pots of specially good jam. Ration jam was usually intins, and of tins it tasted. Barton gazed affectionately at the colouredlabel, which represented a cherry-growing landscape. The label was atalisman which carried his mind safely to the home counties of England.He spoke of railway travelling. "Do you remember the five-thirty fromPaddington? What a dear old train it was!" Helping himself to a spoonfulof cherry jam he mentally passed through Maidenhead in a Pullmancarriage.... The mail had also brought me the balance sheet of theRingwell Hunt. These Hunt accounts made me feel homesick. And itappeared that the late Mr. S. Colwood had subscribed ten pounds. He musthave sent it early in September, just before he was killed. No doubt hewrote the cheque in a day-dream about hunting....

In the meantime we were down in that frowsty smelling dug-out, listeningto the cautious nibbling of rats behind the wooden walls; and aboveground there was the muffled boom of something bursting. And two moreofficers had been killed. Not in our company though. The Germans had putup another mine that afternoon without doing us any damage. Theirtrenches were only a hundred and fifty yards from ours; in some placesless than fifty. It was a sector of the line which specialized in mines;more than half of our 750 yard frontage was pitted with mine-craters,some of them fifty feet deep....

"They were digging in front of Bois Francais Trench again last night," Iremarked.

Barton had just received a message from battalion headquarters sayingthat the company front was to be thoroughly patrolled.

"I'll take O'Brien out with me to-night," I added.

Barton's ruddy face had resumed the worried expression which it worewhen messages came from Kinjack or the Adjutant.

"All right, Kangar; but do be careful. It puts the fear of God into mewhen you're out there and I'm waiting for you to come in."

It put the fear of God into me too, but it was the only escape intofreedom which I could contrive, up in those trenches opposite Fricourtand Mametz. And I was angry with the War.

Memory eliminates the realities of bodily discomfort which made thetexture of trench-life what it was. Mental activity was clogged andhindered by gross physical actualities. It was these details ofdiscomfort which constituted the humanity of an infantryman's existence.Being in the trenches meant among other things having a 'trench-mouth.'

I can see myself sitting in the sun in a nook among the sandbags andchalky debris behind the support line. There is a strong smell ofchloride of lime. I am scraping the caked mud off my wire-torn putteeswith a rusty entrenching tool. Last night I was out patrolling withPrivate O'Brien, who used to be a dock labourer at Cardiff. We threw afew Mills bombs at a German working-party who were putting up some wireand had no wish to do us any harm. Probably I am feeling pleased withmyself about this. Now and again a leisurely five-nine shell passesoverhead in the blue air where the larks are singing. The sound of theshell is like water trickling into a can. The curve of its trajectorysounds peaceful until the culminating crash. A little weasel runs pastmy outstretched feet, glancing at me with tiny bright eyes, apparentlyunafraid. One of our shrapnel shells, whizzing over to the enemy lines,bursts with a hollow crash. Against the clear morning sky a cloud ofdark smoke expands and drifts away. Slowly its dingy wrestling vapourstake the form of a hooded giant with clumsy expostulating arms. Then,with a gradual gesture of acquiescence, it lolls sideways, falling overinto the attitude of a swimmer on his side. And so it dissolves intonothingness. Perhaps the shell has killed someone. Whether it has orwhether it hasn't, I continue to scrape my puttees, and the weasel goesabout his business. The sun strikes the glinting wings of an aeroplane,forging away westward. Somewhere on the slope behind me a partridgemakes its unmilitary noise--down there where Dick was buried a few weeksago. Dick's father was a very good man with a gun, so Dick used tosay....

* * * * * * *

Down in the reserve line I was sitting in the gloom of the steel hut(like being inside a boiler) reading a novel by candlelight while Bartonand Mansfield snored on their beds and my servant Flook sang 'Dixieland'in some adjoining cubby-hole. Being in reserve was a sluggish business;in the front line we were much less morose. Outside there was a remoterumble going on, like heavy furniture being moved about in a roomoverhead. But the little wooden weather-vane on the roof kept onspinning and rattling as though nothing were amiss with the world. Thenthe patter of rain began, and I shivered and turned chilly and thoughtof home and safety. It was time to be going up with that working-party.We should be out from eight till midnight, piling sandbags on theparapet of the front line trench, which had suffered from the wetweather.

It was a pitch dark night. As we were going up across the open to thesupport line the bombardment, about two miles away in the low country onour left reached a climax. The sky winked and flickered like athunderstorm gone crazy. It was a battle seen in miniature against ascreen of blackness. Rocketlights, red and white, curved upward; in therapid glare of bursting explosives the floating smoke showed rufous andtormented; it was like the last hour of Gomorrah; one couldn't imagineanything left alive there. But it was only a small localattack--probably a raid by fifty men, which would be reported in twolines of the G.H.Q. communique. It would soon be our turn to do a raid.The Brigadier had made it quite clear that he 'wanted a prisoner.' Onewould be enough. He wanted to make certain what troops were in front ofus.

* * * * * * *

For identification purposes a dead body would be better than nothing,Kinjack said. O'Brien and I went out one moonlight night into a part ofNo Man's Land where there were no mine-craters. We had been instructedto bring in a dead body which (so our Observation Officer said) waslying out there. The Germans had been across the night before, cuttingour wire, and the Lewis-gun officer was certain that he had inflictedsevere casualties on them. Anyhow, a pair of boots could be seensticking up out of a shell-hole. But when we arrived at the boots wefound them attached to the body of a French soldier who had been thereseveral months. I didn't like this much; but O'Brien whispered to me:"T'Colonel shall have t'boot," and the boot, with half a leg on it, wassent down to Kinjack, as a proof of our efficiency.

Prisoners were seldom seen at that time. I never saw one myself untilthe Somme battle began in the summer. The landscape was in front of us;similar in character to the one behind us, but mysterious with itsunknown quality of being 'behind the Boche line.' We could see theskeleton villages of Fricourt and Mametz, and the ruinous cemetery(which the men called 'the rest camp'). But the enemy was invisible. Onstill nights our sleepy sentries heard him cough from the far side ofthe craters. He patrolled, and we patrolled. Often, when I was crawlingabout on my belly, I imagined a clod of earth to be a hostile head andshoulders watching me from a shell-hole. But patrols had a sensiblehabit of avoiding personal contact with one another. Men in theTunnelling Company who emerged, blinking and dusty white, from themine-shafts, had heard the enemy digging deep underground. They may evenhave heard the muffled mutter of German voices. But, apart from theprojectiles he sent us, the enemy was, as far as we were concerned, anunknown quantity. The Staff were the people who knew all abouthim....

* * * * * * *

Spring arrived late that year. Or was it that spring kept away from thefront line as long as possible? Up there it seemed as though the winterwould last for ever. On wet days the trees a mile away were likeash-grey smoke rising from the naked ridges, and it felt very much as ifwe were at the end of the world. And so we were; for that enemy world(which by daylight we saw through loopholes or from a hidden observationpost) had no relation to the landscape of life. It had meant the end ofthe world for the man whose helmet was still lying about the trench witha jagged hole through it. Steel hats (which our Division had begun towear in February) couldn't keep out a rifle bullet....

By five o'clock on a frosty white morning it would be daylight. Treesand broken roofs emerged here and there from the folds of mist thatdrifted in a dense blur; above them were the white shoals and chasms ofthe sky flushed with the faint pink of dawn. Standing-to at dawn was adesolate affair. The men stamped their feet and rats scurried along thecrannied parapets. But we'd had our tot of rum, and we were to berelieved that afternoon.... Dandelions had begun to flower along theedges of the communication trenches. This was a sign of spring, Ithought, as we filed down Canterbury Avenue, with the men making jokesabout the estaminet in Morlancourt. Estaminet! What a memory evokingword!... It was little enough that they had to go back to.

As for me, I had more or less made up my mind to die; the idea madethings easier. In the circumstances there didn't seem to be anythingelse to be done. I only mention the fact because it seems, now, sostrange that I should have felt like that when I had so much of my lifeto lose. Strange, too, was the thought of summer. It meant less mud,perhaps, but more dust; and the 'big push' was always waiting for us.

Safe in Morlancourt, I slept like a log. Sleep was a wonderful thingwhen one came back from the Line; but to wake was to remember. Talkingto Joe Dottrell did me good. A new transport officer had arrived--aRemount man from England. It was said that he had been combed out of acushy job. I was glad I'd given up the transport. Glad, too, to be ableto ride out on the black mare.

After the ugly weather in the trenches a fine afternoon in the woodabove Méaulte was something to be thankful for. The undergrowth had beencut down, and there were bluebells and cowslips and anemones, and hereand there a wild-cherry tree in blossom. Teams of horses, harrowing theuplands, moved like a procession, their crests blown by the wind. Butthe rural spirit of the neighborhood had been chased away by supplysheds and R. E. stores and the sound of artillery on the horizon. Albert(where Jules Verne used to live), with its two or three chimneystacksand the damaged tower of the basilica, showed above a line of tall treesalong the riverside; a peaceful medley of roofs as I watched it, but inreality a ruined and deserted town. And in the foreground Becourt churchtower peeped above a shoulder of hill like a broken tooth.

Anyhow, the black mare had got the better of the new transport officer.That was something, I thought, as I jogged home again.

My faithful servant Flook always contrived to keep me supplied withoranges when we were up in the trenches. An orange, and taking my soddenboots off whenever I got the chance (though it was against the rules)were my two favourite recreations in the front line. Flook called me(with an orange) at two in the morning; I had to relieve Ormand, who hadbeen on duty since midnight. The orange woke me up. But it was a wetnight, and I'd been out with the wiring-party from ten till twelve.Lugging coils of concertina wire along a narrow trench swilling with mudand water wasn't much fun. Stumbling with it over shell-holes andtrip-wires was worse. However, we had got quite a lot out....

Once I'd shaken off my stupor it wasn't so bad to be out in the nightair. The rain had stopped and Ormand had nothing to report. For the nexttwo hours I should loiter up and down with my knobkerrie in my hand; nowand again I had a whack at a rat running along the parados. From one'bay' to another I went, stopping for a word in an undertone with thesentries; patient in their waterproof sheets they stood on the firestep,peering above the parapet until bleak daylight began to show itself. Thetrench was falling in badly in places after the rain....

Then there was the bombing-post up a sap which went thirty or fortyyards out into No Man's Land. Everything had been very quiet, thebombers muttered....

Back in the main trench, I stood on the firestep to watch the skywhitening. Sad and stricken the country emerged. I could see the ruinedvillage below the hill and the leafless trees that waited like sentriesup by Contalmaison. Down in the craters the dead water took a dull gleamfrom the sky. I stared at the tangles of wire and the leaning posts, andthere seemed no sort of comfort left in life. My steel hat was heavy onmy head while I thought how I'd been on leave last month. I rememberedhow I'd leant my elbows on Aunt Evelyn's front gate (it was my lastevening); that twilight, with its thawing snow, made a comfortablepicture now. John Homeward had come past with his van, plodding besidehis weary horse. He had managed to make his journey, in spite of thestate of the roads.... He had pulled up for a few minutes, and we'dtalked about Dixon, who had been such an old friend of his. "Ay; Tom wasa good chap; I've never known a better...." He had said good-bye andgood-night and set his horse going again. As he turned the corner thepast had seemed to go with him....

And here I was, with my knobkerrie in my hand, staring across at theenemy I'd never seen. Somewhere out of sight beyond the splinteredtree-tops of Hidden Wood a bird had begun to sing. Without knowing why,I remembered that it was Easter Sunday. Standing in that dismal ditch, Icould find no consolation in the thought that Christ was risen. Isploshed back to the dug-out to call the others up for 'stand-to.'

[End of Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man, by Siegfried Sassoon]