THE CROSS-ROADS AT DALLINGTON BURN [Illustration] When his lordship and Jack mounted their hacks in the morning to go to the cross-roads at Dallington Burn, it was so dark that they could not see whether they were on bays or browns.

It was a dull, murky day, with heavy spongy clouds overhead.
There had been a great deal of rain in the night, and the horses poached and squashed as they went.

Our sportsmen, however, were prepared as well for what had fallen as for what might come; for they were encased in enormously thick boots, with baggy overalls, and coats and waistcoats of the stoutest and most abundant order.

They had each a sack of a mackintosh strapped on to their saddle fronts.

Thus they went blobbing and groping their way along, varying the monotony of the journey by an occasional spurt of muddy water up into their faces, or the more nerve-trying noise of a floundering stumble over a heap of stones by the roadside.