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the spinney there was the huntsman going hell for
leather down the slope with his hounds running mute
on one side of him. With my heart in my mouth I
followed Mr. Gaffikin over one fence after another.
Harkaway was a bold jumper and he took complete
control of me. I can remember very little of what
happened, but I was told afterwards that we went
about four miles across the only good bit of vale in the
Potford country. The gallop ended with the hunts-
man blowing his horn under a park wall while the
hounds scrabbled and bayed rather dubiously over a
rabbit-hole. There were only eight or ten riders up
at the 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 with grudging good humour at the
remnant of his field and their heaving horses. "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.


MY SUCCESSFUL scramble across the Potford
Vale obliterated all the dreariness and dis-
appointment of my days with the Dumborough. My
faith in fox-hunting had been reinforced in the nick of
time, and I joggled home feeling a hero. Highly strung
old Harkaway seemed to share my elation. His con-
stitution was equal to a fast hunt, but he needed to be
taken home early in the afternoon. The long dragging
days in the Dumborough woodlands wore him out.
Even now he had a dozen miles to go to his stable,