“A very fine run,” I took the liberty to observe, as I stepped from my saddle and slackened my horse’s girths.  “It will be a long time before we have a better.”

“Two hours and two minutes,” shouted the secretary, looking at his watch, “and straight.  We are in the heart of the Puckeridge country.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Fortescue, quietly, “it was a very enjoyable run.  You like hunting, I think?”

“Like it!  I should rather think I do.  I regard fox-hunting as the very prince of sports.  It is manly, health-giving, and exhilarating.  There is no sport in which so many participate and so heartily enjoy.  We enjoy it, the horses enjoy it, and the hounds enjoy it.”

“How about the fox?”

“Oh, the fox!  Well, the fox is allowed to exist on condition of being occasionally hunted.  If there were no hunting there would be no foxes.  On the whole, I regard him as a fortunate and rather pampered individual; and I have even heard it said that he rather likes being hunted than otherwise.”

“As for the general question, I dare say you are right.  But I don’t think the fox likes it much.  It once happened to me to be hunted, and I know I did not like it.”

This was rather startling, and had Mr. Fortescue spoken less gravely and not been so obviously in earnest, I should have thought he was joking.

“You don’t mean—­Was it a paper-chase?” I said, rather foolishly.

“No; it was not a paper-chase,” he answered, grimly.  “There were no paper-chases in my time.  I mean that I was once hunted, just as we have been hunting that fox.”

“With a pack of hounds?”

“Yes, with a pack of hounds.”

I was about to ask what sort of a chase it was, and how and where he was hunted, when Cuffe came up, and, on behalf of the master, offered Mr. Fortescue the brush.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Fortescue, taking the brush and handing it to Rawlings.  “Here is something for you”—­tipping the huntsman a sovereign, which he put in his pocket with a “Thank you kindly, sir,” and a gratified smile.

And then flasks were uncorked, sandwich-cases opened, cigars lighted, and the conversation becoming general, I had no other opportunity—­at that time—­of making further inquiry of Mr. Fortescue touching the singular episode in his career which he had just mentioned.  A few minutes later a move was made for our own country, and as we were jogging along I found myself near Jim Rawlings.

“That’s a fresh hoss you’ve got, I think, sir,” he said.

“Yes, I have ridden him two or three times with the harriers; but this is the first time I have had him out with fox-hounds.”

“He carried you very well in the run, sir.”

“You are quite right; he did.  Very well.”

“Does he lay hold on you at all, Mr. Bacon?”

“Not a bit.”

“Light in the mouth, a clever jumper, and a free goer.”