His knowledge of the country is
correct to a marvel. While the man who rides straight is
altogether ignorant of his whereabouts, and will not even
distinguish the woods through which he has ridden scores of
times, the man who rides and never jumps always knows where he is
with the utmost accuracy. Where parish is divided from parish and
farm from farm, has been a study to him; and he has learned the
purpose and bearing of every lane. He is never thrown out, and
knows the nearest way from every point to point. If there be a
line of gates across from one road to another he will use them,
but he will commit himself to a line of gates on the land of no
farmer who uses padlocks.
As he trots along the road, occasionally breaking into a gallop
when he perceives from some sign known to him that the hunt is
turning from him, he is generally accompanied by two or three
unfortunates who have lost their way and have straggled from the
hounds; and to them he is a guide, philosopher, and friend. He is
good-natured for the moment, and patronizes the lost ones. He
informs them that they are at last in the right way, and consoles
them by assurances that they have lost nothing.
"The fox broke, you know, from the sharp corner of Granby-wood,"
he says; " the only spot that the crowd had left for him.
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