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THE START

John E Greenwood

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The morning mist lifted reluctantly from the stubble, clinging doggedly to the copse and the distant hedge.

The 25 or so whippeteers shuffled in hushed silence to form a line in the corner of the large, East Anglian field, each with a whippet or two to make up the 3 stakes of the morning. The mounted judge stood quietly, 30 or so yards up the field.

The old slipper, master of timing, had the first brace in slips (9:30, prompt), and hung back 15 yards or so, until all was ready. Suddenly, he jogged forward, the first brace straining in their traces before him. As he burst through the middle of the line to take his place in front, the diminutive hounds all rose to their hind legs and shrieked their welcome, they knew that red coat. The judges' nag shook his head and turned a tight, impatient circle.

HELL-LOW-LOW-LOW-LOW-LOW........be on your mettle, puss, we're here for a game
 
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