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.  Up hurries Legs, and the jackal gets a grip, gives him a shake, and then hobbles slowly on.  The two terriers now hamper him terribly.  One minute they are at his heels, and as soon as he turns, they are at his ear or shoulder.  The rest of the pack are fast coming up.

Anthony has a magnificent bulldog, broad-chested, and a very Goliath among dogs.  He is called ‘Sailor.’  Sailor always pounds along at the same steady pace; he never seems to get flurried.  Sitting lazily at the door, he seems too indolent even to snap at a fly.  He is a true philosopher, and nought seems to disturb his serenity.  But see him after a jackal, his big red tongue hanging out, his eyes flashing fire, and his hair erected on his back like the bristles of a wild boar.  He looks fiendish then, and he is a true bulldog.  There is no flinching with Sailor.  Once he gets his grip it’s no use trying to make him let go.

Up comes Sailor now.

He has the jackal by the throat.

A hoarse, rattling, gasping yell, and the jackal has gone to the happy hunting grounds.

The sun is now mounting in the sky.  The hounds and terriers feel the heat, so sending them home by the keeper, we diverge on our respective roads, ride over our cultivation, seeing the ploughing and preparations generally, till hot, tired, and dusty, we reach home about 11.30, tumble into our bath, and feeling refreshed, sit down contentedly to breakfast.  If the dak or postman has come in we get our letters and papers, and the afternoon is devoted to office work and accounts, hearing complaints and reports from the villages, or looking over any labour that may be going on in the zeraats or at the workshops.  In the evening we