in him personally. It was before the Traveller days, so that the Dunmore triumvirate were mounted on steeds that, though good of their kind and well-bred (for they always went in for blood), were not quite up to the form of St. George and Trackdeer, Triton or Jupiter. William Campbell rode a roan, Houndsfoot, five years old; and Macknight, I believe, his grand old mare Die Vernon—one of those brilliant all-round goers that you couldn't put wrong.
I rode my favourite black mare Tanny, the dam of Hope, Clifton, Red Deer, and Comanchee—the first three winners in the aftertime either on the flat or 'over the sticks.' She could both jump and gallop, as I must show when I have time.
I regret that I cannot supply details anent this almost prehistoric run. I recall The Caliph sailing over everything and taking all manner of fences, from 'chock and log' to stiff three-railers, in his stride. Freedom would probably be running away as usual, being a horse that no mortal man could hold for the first mile. Alick Hunter and his brother, doubtless, were there or thereabouts; and Robert Clerk of Mummumberrich (the M.F.H. in time to come) was forward enough with Rocket in spite of weight over the average. It was pretty straight going. We were used to risks by flood and field. Ordinary stock-riding was hardly safer than this or any other run with hounds. Matters were prosperous, and everybody was looking forward to a first-class run, when 'the devil or some untoward saint' put it into our quarry's head to double back as nearly as possible along the line upon which he had come.
We had the satisfaction of taking nearly the same jumps over again, when, lo and behold! dingo, apparently bent on self-destruction, made across the hummocks, and charging the Pacific Ocean as if he meant to cross over to Tasmania, swam gaily out to sea. As he reached the surf the desperate pack raced down to the beach, where they sniffed and circled in unwonted doubt and desperation. Eventually Reynard found the enterprise disproportionate to his powers, and, swimming back, reached the beach in a state of exhaustion. The hounds were whipped off, however, and Old Tom and his bag being again called into requisition, the sheep-killer was reserved for another and perhaps a straighter run.
