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Rough, back by the Banks into the Park, left-handed
by Warthole Wood . . .*' and so on, until one could
almost have believed that he'd been riding the fox
himself instead of one of his low-priced and persever-
ing hunters.

As might be imagined, he was by no means difficult
to get to know. At first I was rather scared by the
noises he made whenever I was anywhere near him:
either he was hustling along close behind me, shout-
ing "Forrad on", or else he was cracking his whip at
a straggling hound, or bawling "Hold up" to his
horse at a jump, and I felt that I should be the next
one to get shouted at. But I soon discovered what
a cheery customer he was, and I became one of his
best listeners. Needless to say, he was on easy terms
with the Master, and it was in his company that I
made my first step toward knowing Milclen well.

Buzzaway was one of the privileged (or pushful)
people who were sometimes to be seen riding along a
road beside the huntsman, although Mildcn's manner
was abstracted and discouraging to conversation.
More than once I had overtaken the hounds on their
way to a meet, but I had always kept unobtrusively
at the rear of the procession, which included three
second-horsemen, one of them carrying a terrier in a
bag. I was so shy that I scarcely ventured to say
good-morning when I passed Milden at the meet.
But one day in the middle of December I stayed out
to the very end on one of Whatman's hirelings; as a
rule I started back to Downfield a bit earlier, to
catch my train, but it was getting dark early and the
hounds had been running hard in the big woods all
day, changing foxes several times. Milden was
standing up in his stirrups and blowing his horn;
the first whip was counting the hounds with little