TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston

cheering his hounds up and down the woods he had
several times passed us; but he was engrossed in his
job and scarcely gave us a glance.

When we arrived at the rabbit-warren I could at
first see nothing of him but the back of his old mul-
berry coat; his head and shoulders were half under-
ground; he had just put a terrier in and was listening
intently for muffled subterranean barkings. Stephen
got into conversation with Will, the first whip, who
was an old friend of his, since he'd been second whip
under the previous huntsman (the ineffectual Ben
Trotter). I didn't dare to hope that Milden would
remember me, but when he straightened himself and
swivelled a jolly red face in my direction I gazed at
him with humble expectancy.

I drew his face blank; for his eyes travelled on
toward the first whip and he exclaimed, with the
temporary Irish brogue which he had acquired while
he was hunting the Kilcurran Hounds, "They're a
tarrible long time bringing those spades, Will!"

Whereupon he picked up his heavy-thonged crop
and whistled some baying and inquisitive bitches
away from the rabbit-hole, addressing them in the
unwriteable huntsman's lingo which they appeared
to understand, judging by the way they looked up at
him. "Trinket . . . good ole gal ... here; Relic;
Woeful; Bonnybell; get along bike there. Gamesome
good little Gamesome"—with affectionate inter-
polations, and an aside to Will that that Windgall
was entering first rate and had been right up in front
all the morning . . . "throwing your tongue a treat,
weren't ye, little Windgall?" Windgall jumped up at
him and flourished her stern.

Soon afterwards the second whip rode through the
undergrowth encumbered with spades, and they took

215