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118 days at which I used to be present something like twenty years ago, where the sport was, in its way, of the very best. It happened that one of my neighbours owned a hill farm about twenty miles from where we both lived, and it was his custom to give the tenant one day's coursing every year, on which occasion a party of neighbours from our district drove over, saw the sport, dined at the farmer's house, and drove back again at night. It was a biggish day, even for country people, who are accustomed to go a long way to covert, and as it invariably took place in December, it followed that much of the outward journey and all the getting home was done in the dark.

How well I remember those early starts! One had to rise about 4.30, and the rendezvous used to be at the promoter's house at 5.45, for it was a terribly up and down country that we had to travel, and as the roads were never in good order, it used to take us a long three hours to reach the scene of action.

As a rule everyone was fairly punctual, for we were a sporting lot in our district, and all of us were accustomed to early rising. The walk to the starting-point was generally performed in black darkness, and the first glimpse of light was seen when we rounded the corner of our friend's drive and found the lamps of the four-in-hand brake staring us in the face.