"They've just run into him at Boxall Springs, Mr. Jones," says a
farmer whom he passes on the road. Boxall Springs is only a
quarter of a mile before him, but he wonders how the farmer has
come to know all about it. But on reaching Boxall Springs he
finds that the farmer was right, and that Tom is already breaking
up the fox. "Very good thing, Mr. Jones," says the squire in good
humour. Our friend mutters something
between his teeth and rides away in dudgeon from the triumphant
master. On his road home he hears all about it from everybody. It
seems to him that he alone of all those who are anybody has
missed the run, the run of the season! " And killed him in the
open as you may say," says Smith, who has already twice boasted
in Jones's hearing that he had seen every turn the hounds had
made. " It wasn't in the open," says Jones, reduced in his anger
to diminish as far as may be the triumph of his rival.
Such is the fate, the too frequent fate of the man who hunts and
does like it.
THE LADY WHO RIDES TO HOUNDS.
Among those who hunt there are two classes of hunting people who
always like it, and these people are hunting parsons and hunting
ladies. That it should be so is natural enough. In the life and
habits of parsons and ladies there is much that is antagonistic
to hunting, and they who suppress this antagonism do so because
they are Nimrods at heart.
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