A lot of hoof-marks and a gap in a big boundary
fence soon showed us where the hunt had gone. We
were now on some low-lying meadows, and he said
it looked as if we'd have to jump the Harcombe brook.
As we approached it there was a shout from down-
stream and we caught sight of someone in distress,
A jolly faced young farmer was up to his arm-pits in
the water with his horse plunging about beside him.
"Hullo, it's Bob Millet and his tubed mare!55
Stephen jumped off Jerry and 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 soaked to the skin.
"Haven't you got a cork?" inquired Stephen.
"No, Mr. Colwood, but I'm keeping my finger on
the hole in her neck. She'll be drowned if I don't."
This peculiar situation was solved by Stephen, who
held the mare by her bridle and skilfully extricated her
after several tremendous heaves and struggles.
We then crossed the brook by a wooden bridge a
few hundred yards away—young Millet remarking
that he'd never come out again without his cork.
Soon afterwards we came up with the hounds, who
had lost their fox and were drawing the Binsted
covers without much enthusiasm. Colonel Hesmon
commiserated with us for having missed "quite a
pretty little dart in the open". If he'd been on his
brown mare, he said, he'd have had a cut at the Har-
combe brook. "But this cob of mine won't face water,"
he remarked, adding that he'd once seen half the
Quorn field held up by a brook you could have
jumped in your boots.
The huntsman now enlivened the deflated pro-