To lay down such light land into permanent pasture does not pay; it is therefore left to its own devices, with the result that in a short time weeds and moss and rough grasses spring up—­less unprofitable than ploughed fields, and almost as favourable for hunting the fox as the fair pastures of the Vale of Aylesbury.  However,

     “Nihil est ab omni
      Parte beatum.”

There are other things to be done in this life besides riding across country in the wake of the flying pack, glorious and exhilarating though the pastime be; and the sooner these great wastes of unprolific land are once more transformed into wheat-growing plough, the better will it be for all of us.

So you stroll dreamily homewards, musing on these things, and wondering whether you will have another glorious gallop to-morrow.  You will just go round by that spinney to see if the earth you gave orders to be stopped up is properly closed.  But stop!  What is that lying curled up under the wall not ten yards off?  See, he stirs! he rises lazily and looks round!  ’Tis the very fox!  Long and lean and wiry is he, fine drawn and sleek as a trained racehorse, with a brush nearly two feet long!  Brown as the ploughed field you were looking at just now, save for the tip of his brush, which is white as snow.  He trots off along the wall, offering the easiest of broadside shots if you were villain enough to take advantage of it.  He does not hurry; he stops and looks round after a bit, as much as to say, “I trust you.”  But when you steal cautiously towards him he once more lollops along.  You follow, to see where he goes to when he has jumped over the high wall into the next field.  But he does not jump over, but on to the wall, and there he sits looking at you until you are once more nearly up to him; then he disappears the other side, and you run up and peep over.  He is nowhere to be seen!  You look along the wall for a hole into which he could have popped, but in vain.  You stoop down and try to track him by scent and the mark of his pad, but all to no purpose; and from that day to this you have never discovered what became of him.

[Illustration:  “THE OLD CUSTOMER.” 138.png]

CHAPTER VI.

A GALLOP OVER THE WALLS.

     “Waken, lords and ladies gay,
      To the greenwood haste away;
      We can show you where he lies,
      Fleet of foot and tall of size.”

      SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The next morning you are up betimes, for the hounds meet at the house at nine o’clock.  You are not sorry on looking out of your window to see that a thick mist at present envelopes the country.  With the ground in the dry state it is in, this mist, accompanied as it is by a heavy dew, is your only chance of a scent.  How else could they hunt the jackal in India if it was not for this dew?  Thus reflecting, you recall pleasant recollections of gallops over hard ground with the Bombay hounds, and comfort yourself with the thought that the ground here to-day cannot be as hard as that Indian soil.  You are soon into your breeches and boots and down to breakfast.  In the dining-room a large party is already assembled, for there are five men and two ladies turning out from the house, whilst one or two keen sportsmen have already put in an appearance from afar.