am slowly riding
along I hear a shout in the distance, and looking round behold Anthony
advancing at a rapid hand gallop. His dogs and mine, being old friends,
rapidly fraternise, and we determine on a hunt.

'Let's try the old patch, Anthony!'

'All right,' and away we go making straight for the mound. When we
reach the grass the syces and keepers hold the hounds at the corners
outside, while we ride through the grass urging on the terriers, who,
quivering with excitement, utter short barks, and dash here and there
among the thick grass, all eager for a find.

'Gone away, gone away!' shouts Anthony, as a fleet fox dashes out,
closely followed by 'Pincher' and half a dozen others. The hounds are
slipped, and away go the pack in full pursuit, we on our horses riding
along, one on each side of the chase. The fox has a good start, but now
the hounds are nearing him, when with a sudden whisk he doubles round
the ridge encircling a rice field, the hounds overshoot him, and ere
they turn the fox has put the breadth of a good field between himself
and his pursuers. He is now making back again for the grass, but
encounters some of the terriers who have tailed off behind. With
panting chests and lolling tongues, they are pegging stolidly along,
when fortune gives them this welcome chance. Redoubling their efforts,
they dash at the fox. 'Bravo, Tilly! you tumbled him over that time;'
but he is up and away again. Dodging, double-turning, and twisting, he
has nearly run the gauntlet, and the friendly covert is close at hand,
but the hounds are now up again and thirsting for his blood. 'Hurrah!
Minnie has him!' cries Anthony, and riding up we divest poor Reynard of
his brush, pat the dogs, ease the girths for a minute, and then again
into the jungle for another beat.

This time a fat old jackal breaks to the left, long before the dogs are
up. Yelling to the _mehters_ not to slip the hounds, we gather the
terriers together, and pound over the stubble and ridges. He is going
very leisurely, casting an occasional scared look over his shoulder.
'Curly' and 'Legs,' two of my fastest terriers, are now in full view,
they are laying themselves well to the ground, and Master Jackal thinks
it's high time to increase his pace. He puts on a spurt, but condition
tells. He is fat and pursy, and must have had a good feed last night on
some poor dead bullock. He is shewing his teeth now. Curly makes his
rush, and they both roll over together. U