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Full text of "TheCompleteMemoirsOfGeorgeSherston"

his coat collar turned up, and his head bent against
the driving rain. His boots were usually muddy
owing to his laudable habit of getting off his horse as
often as possible to give it a rest, and during a slow
hunt he was often to be seen leading his mount and
even running beside it. He was an active man on
his feet, and when he wasn't riding to hounds he
was following a pack of foot-harriers. Stag-hunting
he despised. "Jackasses hunting a carted jackass'5, he
called it. In his youth Buzzaway had been called
to the Bar. His friends always said that when he got
there he asked for a bottle of "Bass" and never went
back again after he had discovered his mistake. From
this it inay be inferred that he had a wholesome belief
in good liquor.

"Beer goes well with beagling," he would remark,
"but after a fox-hunt I feel the need for something
stronger."

Few of my fox-hunting acquaintances seem to have
been taciturn, but Buzzaway, I am inclined to think,
outwent them all in consistent chattiness. He enjoyed
airing his  observations, which were shrewd  and
homely.   He was one of those men whose personal
conviction as to which way the hunted fox has gone
is only equalled by their expert knowledge, at the
end of a gallop, of the ground he went over. His in-
timacy with minor local topography was unsurpassed
by anyone I knew. Even when he had been out with
some neighbouring pack, he could reel off the parish
names like clockwork.   When asked what sort of a
day he'd had, he would reply: "Found in Clackett's
Copse, ran a couple of rings, and then out by Hogstye,
over the old fosse-way, and into Warthole Wood,
where he tried the main-earths and went on into
Cuddlcswoocl Park; along the Banks and into Hawk's

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