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Full text of "TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston"

was out hunting. This, of course, should have meant
that he kept as much as possible to the roads and
handed the horse over to his employer as soon as the
'first horse had done as much galloping and jumping
as was considered good for him. Not so George,
who was seldom more than two fields away from
hounds however hard they ran. Times without
number I have seen him come crashing through some
black-looking fence and then turn to shout back at
the irresolute Mr, Glampton, "Shove 5im at it, sir;
there's a big old ditch on the landing side!" And
at the end of a gallop, when both horses were smoking
hot, he would dismount with the utmost gravity and
exchange horses with his master, who had even been
known to go home first, leaving his privileged retainer
to knock holes in the fences in a late afternoon hunt.
In him I seem to be remembering all that was
warm-hearted and exhilarating in my days with the
Ringwell, for he showed a special interest in Stephen
Colwood and myself, and was never so well contented
as when he was showing us the way over an awkward
place or giving us the benefit of his ripe experience
and intimate knowledge. There was something noble
about him. And so (I choose to think) it was for
"Gentleman George" that I kept the kindliest of my
meditations as I was bicycling to the point-to-point
course.

It was peaceful and pleasant to be squatting on a
gate and opening the package of sandwiches that
Miriam had made me. The gate opened on to a
boggy lane which ran through Cruchett's Woodó
a well-known covert. But Cruchett's Wood was

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