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They learned to keep their noses down, and day after
day Milden watched them worrying out the barely
workable line of a fox who was half an hour ahead of
them; he was deaf to the captious comments of his
field and the loudly offered information of would-be
helpers who knew which way his fox had gone. The
result of this procedure was that after Christmas,
when scenting conditions improved, the light-boned
bitches began to hunt like blazes; in fact, as he said,
"they fairly screamed along", and of the two packs
he really couldn't make up his mind which was the
better—the big bitches or the little bitches. When
the big bitches had pushed an old dog-fox out of
Basset Wood and killed him after a fast fifty minutes
with only one check, a six-mile point over all the
best of the Monday country, the little bitches went
one better with a really beautiful hunt from one of the
big gorse coverts on the hills. The grumbling con-
tingent now forgot that they'd ever uttered a word of
criticism, and for the moment were unable to exercise
their grumbling aptitude at all. But the real wise-
acres, such as Sir John Ruddimore and Fred Buzza-
way, nodded conclusively to one another, as though
agreeing that it was only what they'd been expecting
all the time,

Fred Buzzaway, whose name has just cropped up
casually, was a totally different type of sportsman
from that reticent local magnate Sir John Ruddimore
(of Rapworth Park). Always fond of a joke, Fred
Buzzaway was a blue-jowled dog-faced bachelor, who
habitually dressed as though it were going to be a
pouring wet day. Bowler hat well down over his
ears; dark whipcord coat and serviceable brown
breeches; tight and skimpy stock; such was his rig-
out, wet or fine. I see him now, splashed with mud,