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Dumborough only went out on Tuesdays and Satur-
days. The races were being held about three miles
from Downfield, the county town, which was in the
middle of the Ringwell country. So in order to get
there I had to bicycle nearly seven miles and then
make the twenty-five mile train journey from Dum-
borough to Downfield. It was a journey which
subsequently became tediously familiar, but it felt
almost adventurous on the fine mid-April day which
I am describing.

In deference to the horsey events which I was
intent on witnessing, 1 was wearing my box-cloth
gaiters, and as I bicycled out of the unhunted Butley
district I felt that 1 was indeed on my way to a region
where things really happened. In fact, I might have
been off to Melton Mowbray, so intense were my
expectations. As the train puffed slowly into Sussex
I eyed the densely wooded Dumborough country
disparagingly. At the point where, so far as I could
judge, there should have been a noticeable improve-
ment, the landscape failed to adapt itself to my antici-
pations. . The train had entered Ringwell territory,
but there was still 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 no other pur-
pose than to be jumped by Harkaway. I had yet to
become aware of the farmer's point of view. A large
crowd of people riding over someone else's land and
making holes in the hedges is likely to create all sorts
of trouble for the Master of Hounds, but I had not
thought of it in that way. The country was there to
be ridden over. That was all. I knew that I ought
to shut the gates behind me (and some of them were