he
next field to the right, or scrambling through the corners of the
fences while the rush was going on at the gates; and among these was
George Vavasor. He never rode in a crowd, always keeping himself
somewhat away from men as well as hounds. He would often be thrown
out, and then men would hear no more of him for that day. On such
occasions he did not show himself, as other men do, twenty minutes
after the fox had been killed or run to ground,--but betook himself
home by himself, going through the byeways and lanes, thus leaving no
report of his failure to be spoken of by his compeers.

As long as the line of gates lasted, the crowd continued as thick as
ever, and the best man was he whose horse could shove the hardest.
After passing some four or five fields in this way they came out upon
a road, and, the scent holding strong, the dogs crossed it without
any demurring. Then came doubt into the minds of men, many of whom,
before they would venture away from their position on the lane,
narrowly watched the leading hounds to see whether there was
indication of a turn to the one side or the other. Sir William, whose
seventy odd years excused him, turned sharp to the left, knowing that
he could make Claydon's that way; and very many were the submissive
horsemen who followed him; a few took the road to the right, having
in their minds some little game of their own. The hardest riders
there had already crossed from the road into the country, and were
going well to the hounds, ignorant, some of them, of the brook
before them, and others unheeding. Foremost among these was Burgo
Fitzgerald,--Burgo Fitzgerald, whom no man had ever known to crane at
a fence, or to hug a road, or to spare his own neck or his horse's.
And yet poor Burgo seldom finished well,--coming to repeated grief in
this matter of his hunting, as he did so constantly in other matters
of his life.

But almost neck and neck with Burgo was Pollock, the sporting
literary gentleman. Pollock had but two horses to his stud, and was
never known to give much money for them;--and he weighed without his
boots, fifteen stones! No one ever knew how Pollock did it;--more
especially as all the world declared that he was as ignorant of
hunting as any tailor. He could ride, or when he couldn't ride he
could tumble,--men said that of him,--and he would ride as long as
the beast under him could go. But few knew the sad misfortunes which
poor Pollock sometimes encountered;--t