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short of impossibility deterred me, and the working
out of my plans was an effective antidote to war-
weariness. It was, in fact, very like achieving the im-
possible, when I sat in my hut of an evening, cogitat-
ing with luxurious deliberation, consulting a map and
calculating how my hireling could meet me at such
and such a station, measuring the distance from there
to the meet, and so on in the manner known to en-
thusiastic young sportsmen. On such Saturdays I
would get up in the dark with joyful alacrity. Leaving
Liverpool by an early train, I would eagerly observe
the disconsolate beginnings of a dull December day,
encouraging as far as I could the illusion that I was
escaping from everything associated with the uniform
which I wore, and eyeing my brown Craxwell field-
boots affectionately.

Under such conditions no day could be a bad one,
and although more than one Saturday's hunting was
stopped by frost, I derived singular consolation from
the few hunts I had. My consolations included a
heavy fall over some high timber which I ought to
have had more sense than to tackle, since my hireling
was a moderate though willing performer. Anyhow,
the contrast between Clitherland Camp and the
Cheshire Saturday country was like the difference be-
tween War and Peace—especially when—at the end
of a good day—I jogged a few miles homeward with
the hounds, conversing with the cheery huntsman in
my best pre-war style.

Apart from these compensations I had the com-
panionship of David who was now quite the "old
soldier" and as argumentative as ever. In fact, while
I pored over my one-inch-to-the-mile map of Cheshire
after dinner, he was usually sitting on in the Mess and
taking an active part in the wordy warfare of other