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they succeeded in lassooing her head and she was
persuaded to emerge from the pond. She was then
frog-marched away to a farm building, where she
awaited the arrival of her conveyance, which was
cruising about the country and usually put in an
appearance much earlier than might have been

It can also be inferred from my diary that the
weather "came on wet" as soon as I'd started my
ten-mile ride back to the railway-station and Harka-
way's horse-box, and that the supporters of the
Coshford Hunt departed in different directions
wishing one another a merry Christmas and a happy
New Year. It may also be inferred that poor Miss
Masterful sweated 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 entrance
to watch them tie her up. I only wondered how far
I was from the station and my poached eggs for tea.
Any sympathy I had was reserved for Harkaway,
who looked as if he'd had more galloping than was
good for him* But when I was jogging back by
Chartley Church, with my coat collar turned up and
the rain soaking my knees, I chuckled to myself as I
thought of an amusing incident which had happened
earlier in the day.

We were galloping full-tilt along a road just outside
a cosy village. An angry faced old parson was
leaning over his garden gate, and as we clattered past
he shook his fist at us and shouted "Brutes! Brutes!"
in a loud unclerical voice. Excited and elated as I
was, I turned in the saddle and waved my whip
derisively at him. Silly old buffer! And what a
contrast to that jolly sporting parson in alow-crowned
top-hat who went so well and came up and talked to