“Well, if you like,” said Sir George, “I might run you over there on the motor car some day to see how they’re all getting on.  If Freddy is going to hunt on Friday, we might go on to Craffroe after seeing the fun.”

The topic of Barnet was here shelved in favour of automobiles.  Mrs. Alexander’s brother was also a person of enthusiasms.

But what were these enthusiasms compared to the deep-seated ecstasy of Freddy Alexander as in his new pink coat he rode down the main street of Enniscar, Patsey in equal splendour bringing up the rear, unspeakably conscious of the jibes of his relatives and friends.  There was a select field, consisting of Mr. Taylour, four farmers, some young ladies on bicycles, and about two dozen young men and boys on foot, who, in order to be prepared for all contingencies, had provided themselves with five dogs, two horns, and a ferret.  It is, after all, impossible to please everybody, and from the cyclists’ and foot people’s point of view the weather left nothing to be desired.  The sun shone like a glistering shield in the light blue November sky, the roads were like iron, the wind, what there was of it, like steel.  There was a line of white on the northerly side of the fences, that yielded grudgingly and inch by inch before the march of the pale sunshine:  the new pack could hardly have had a more unfavourable day for their debut.

The new Master was, however, wholly undaunted by such crumples in the rose-leaf.  He was riding Mayboy, a big trustworthy horse, whose love of jumping had survived a month of incessant and arbitrary schooling, and he left the road as soon as was decently possible, and made a line across country for the covert that involved as much jumping as could reasonably be hoped for in half a mile.  At the second fence Patsey Crimmeen’s black mare put her nose in the air and swung round; Patsey’s hands seemed to be at their worst this morning, and what their worst felt like the black mare alone knew.  Mr. Taylour, as Deputy Whip, waltzed erratically round the nine couple on a very flippant polo pony; and the four farmers, who had wisely adhered to the road, reached the covert sufficiently in advance of the hunt to frustrate Lily’s project of running sheep in a neighbouring field.

The covert was a large, circular enclosure, crammed to the very top of its girdling bank with furze-bushes, bracken, low hazel, and stunted Scotch firs.  Its primary idea was woodcock, its second rabbits; beaters were in the habit of getting through it somehow, but a ride feasible for fox hunters had never so much as occurred to it.  Into this, with practical assistance from the country boys, the deeply reluctant hounds were pitched and flogged; Freddy very nervously uplifted his voice in falsetto encouragement, feeling much as if he were starting the solo of an anthem; and Mr. Taylour and Patsey, the latter having made it up with the black mare, galloped away with professional