Chapter III: Preface (3)

No sooner does he hear the appointed place than he gives up the bridle argument, and making his way to where the Master and others are trotting down the lane, commences: "You don't mean to say, Lappington, you're going to put them into the Wood? Why, we shall never get away, and the rides will be impassable. My good sir, just think. Here, some of you fellows, try and persuade him, he never listens to me, nobody ever does;" adding, under his breath, "never heard such d----d folly in my life."

"Why, Bowles," replies Sir John, laughing, "you said a minute ago that the bottoms would be under water, and now you object to the high ground. Where would you go to, you old growler?"

"Growler be hanged: I never grumble. But it is a little bit too much, when one comes out for a day's hunting, to be turned loose into a forest of trees growing on a bog. The man who planted Mickleborough Wood ought to have been hung," says Bowles.

What more he might have added will never be known, for at this instant a ringing view holloa is heard, and the hounds are away full cry, a fox having jumped up in a spinney on the road to the Wood.

"Just like my luck," the Major is heard to ejaculate, as he puts his nag at the fence out of the lane. "Whenever I try and give anybody advice they tell me I am growling. Hold up, you awkward devil," to his horse, who pecks a bit on landing. "And here have I been wasting my time teaching a pack of idiots how to hunt the country, and lost my start."

After running hard for a quarter of an hour, the hounds check in a road, half the pack having flashed over the line.

Here the Major is in his glory, and holds forth. "What did I say this morning? If they will bring out every hound in the kennel, how can they expect them to hunt. Look there, now; look there. What the devil's the use of taking them up the road? The fox is for'ard, I'll wager. 'Pon my oath, I believe old Tom is getting past his work. There's that young ass, Simms, too, messing about--always in the way. I should like to know how he finds time to hunt. Every farmer seems to be able to do everything nowadays, and when they want to pay their corn-bill they cry out about the weather and ask for a reduction of rent."

"Not quite so bad as all that, Major," exclaim one or two farmers, who think it time to stick up for their characters. "Not quite so bad as all that. We likes to ride as well as anyone, and we likes to see others enjoy themselves over our land. But there, we know you don't mean it."

Just then, as if to convict the Major, Harbinger hits off the line up the road, and they are away again a cracker, Bowles coming in for plenty of chaff about the fox being for'ard and Tom being past his work.

To give him his due, he was right when he blamed the country, for it is precious heavy, and plenty of grief is the order of the day. The scent, too, improving, with every hundred yards, it becomes hard work to live with them. Sir John, as usual, is well up, and a few others are close in his wake, among them Bowles, whose coat, by-the-way, shows evident signs of contact with mother-earth--a catastrophe that was brought about, he says, "by the idiotic way that people mend their fences, with a great rail run through them."

However, when, after an hour and ten minutes, they run to ground, even he is fain to allow that they have had a real good thing, though he qualifies the admission with a few scathing remarks on the slovenly way in which the earths are stopped: "A disgrace to the country, by Heaven!"

Riding home he asks a few men to dinner the next day at his house, amongst them Sir John Lappington and Mr. Wilson the Doctor--in case of accidents, he says. His invitation is eagerly accepted, for his dinners are proverbial and his wine undeniable. To see him at his own table you would scarcely know him again for the same man. The grumbling has all been got over before the guests arrive; and as you drive home--with that comfortable feeling of having dined well, wisely, and in pleasant company--you bear away a cheerful remembrance of witty sayings and thorough good-fellowship, of a countenance beaming with fun, and stories which, if you wake in the night and think of, will cause you to laugh afresh.

Nearly all these happy feelings and memories you may safely put down to the skill of your host the Major, whose sole failing, as I have said, lies in the fact that, from habit, in the field, he has become a Grumbler.

THE LADY WHO HUNTS AND RIDES.

Wildmere House is a favourite meet with the Bullshire, consequently there is always a large field out at that fixture, every class of sportsman being represented, both those who mean business and those who merely come to partake of the good cheer offered them, and afterwards, when hounds begin to run, retire into the background, unless, indeed, some handy highroad lies parallel to the chase, when they reappear, splashed with mud, and enthusiastic _ad nauseam_.

Most hospitable of entertainers is Colonel Talford, who occupies The House; and with his pretty wife to assist him, there is little fear of any complaints being heard as to the quality or quantity of the breakfast. Equally certain is old Tom that a real straight-necked good-hearted fox is ready for him either in the Home Wood or Ravenshill Copse, for the Colonel makes it a rule with his keepers that there shall be foxes, and they know well that his rules are like the laws of the Medes and Persians--unalterable.

"No foxes, no keepers," is what he says; and if the quarry is not forthcoming, unless a very good reason can be given, go they have to.

He once came upon Velveteens in the act of burying a fox that he had trapped and knocked on the head--or, to be more accurate, Mrs. Talford, who was riding back from the Dairy Farm, saw the funeral going on, and told her husband. The man was a new keeper, who had been with him barely a month, and as a keeper was considered quite first-class. But there and then the Colonel went out, had the fox dug up, and made the man take it over to Sir John Lappington, riding himself all the way behind him to see that he did it.

Through the main street of the village they went in procession, the men (for it was evening) turning out and hooting the unfortunate vulpecide; and when he had delivered his burden and apologised, the Colonel said: "Now you can go back and pack up your things; this is your last day in my service." His wages were paid that night, and in spite of all entreaties, the next day he left Colonel Talford and Bullshire for ever.

It is a lovely morning as Tom rides up with his beauties in front of the house, and, saluting the host and hostess, tosses off the glass of sparkling ale that is handed to him. There had been a catch of frost on the Monday, and folks learned in weather-lore had predicted a hard time; but nothing came of it, for a shower of rain on Tuesday night had utterly routed the destroyer of sport; and on the Thursday at Wildmere it is as fine a hunting-day as one could wish--if anything perhaps a shade too warm.

"We must give them a few minutes, Sir John," says Mrs. Talford to the Master, who has just arrived. "The Melton train is late, and there are always a few who honour us on this occasion by trying to cut us all down."

"Certainly, Mrs. Talford," replies Lappington, smiling and taking out his watch. "We will give them a quarter of an hour; but you need not be so fearfully sarcastic about the Meltonians. I think it is generally the other way. If I remember rightly, I have seen a lady on a horse called Queen Bee who generally requires a great deal of cutting down, and I have heard it said that this same lady is impossible to beat."

"Nonsense, Sir John; you know that if I do manage to get over the country it is all the Queen's doing, not mine. She's a dear, is not she? But come in and have something; my husband wants to see you about drawing the Copse first," rejoins Mrs. Talford, leading the way into the dining-room, and evidently pleased at the Master's flattery.

In a quarter of an hour, the Melton detachment having come up, the signal is given to move, and a long cavalcade trot off for Ravenshill. A minute or two later two horses are seen cantering across the grass to catch up the hounds; one carries Colonel Talford, and the other (the redoubtable Queen Bee) his wife.

As they come up and press forward to where Tom's white head is seen bobbing in the middle of the pack, men point her out, and you hear a whisper of "There she is, that's her--riding the same horse too; by Jove, old fellow, it's all very well to say 'only a woman,' but if you can beat her you'll do. Why, the last time we met here she cut us all down and hung us up to dry; only rode one horse all day. Dick Valpy had three out, and you know how he can ride; but I'm blessed if he didn't get nearly drowned in the brook, while she sailed over it as if it was nothing. We'd been running for forty minutes then, but she can save her horse as well as ride, I can tell you."

Some who have not seen her express their doubts, and vow that "No woman ever beat them yet, and, by gad, sir, they never shall;" but they do not know Mrs. Talford or Queen Bee, and before the day is over they will tell another tale.

Yet you would never take her for a hard rider, though anyone at a glance can see she is a finished horsewoman. Nothing could possibly be quieter than her turn-out. A well-fitting, well-cut, rough cloth habit, rather short; a neat white silk handkerchief tied and folded round a high stand-up linen collar, just showing, like a man's scarf, where the habit is made with a step; a small black felt hat, of the kind known as a "billycock," covering her well-shaped head, the hair of which is gathered into a small knot behind; while in her hand she carries a hunting-crop, made of a holly that she herself cut from the lawn in front of the house.

Her seat is easy yet firm, and very square on her saddle. Those small hands too, which look as if they could hurt no living thing, can hold and control a puller with wondrous power, a fact her horses seem to recognise directly she takes up the reins of her bridle, for they go so quietly under her hand that one is forced to wonder what it was that made them fret and tear in such a disagreeable way when Mrs. A---- or Lady B---- claimed them for their own, in the days before they found that they were "too much for them," and had to sell them to the Colonel at a discount.

With all this, as she, having ranged up alongside of the pack, pulls up Queen Bee into a trot, and pats the neck of that more than perfect animal, one cannot help a feeling of astonishment that so slight and delicate-looking a woman should be able to go so hard; and in our inmost hearts we feel that if we could lay claim to half as straight a course as Mrs. Talford we should not hide our light quite so much under a bushel as she does.

They are close to the Copse now, and Mrs. Talford and the Colonel slip down to the far side with Charles; the right of proprietorship allowing this, which is courteously yet firmly forbidden to the rest of the field.

"Gentlemen," says the Master, "for your own sport I wish the whole of the left side and bottom of the covert kept free. It's a clear start either way, therefore I must beg you not to get for'ard. Give the fox a chance, and then, so long as you don't ride over the hounds, go as you like."

Someone suggests that the Colonel and his wife have gone down to the bottom, whereupon Sir John shuts him up by saying: "That, sir, is only another reason why nobody else should go. When we draw your coverts we will allow you to go where you like, and keep the rest out of your way."

As the individual happens to be a gentleman who has only that season come down to Bullshire, and has not subscribed as yet to the hounds, the remark causes a general titter, and the man wishes he had not spoken.

His discomfiture is, however, of short duration, for at this instant the hounds find, and from the chorus and way they rattle him up and down the covert it is clear that they are not far behind their fox. Two rings round the Wood and he finds it too hot to hold him, so away he goes across the slope in full view of the whole field.

"Hold hard one moment, gentlemen," shouts the Master, as Tom, horn in hand, tops the wood fence, and claps the hounds on to the line.

"Now"--and a hundred or more horses are rattling down the hill towards the fence at the bottom.

Some visibly diminish their pace as they near the obstacle, and some make a determined point to the gate in the corner, which a friendly yeoman is holding open. But there is little time to notice all this, for the pace is a cracker, and the scent is breast-high. Two or three loose horses are careering about the next field, and two or three dismounted riders are running after them.

"Catch hold, sir," says young Simms, as he stops one of the horses and delivers him up to his owner; "catch hold--I can't stop;" and he is over the next bank and ditch before the spilt one has recovered the effects of his acrobatic performance.

Such a jam at the double post and rails! There are but three or four negotiable places, and everybody is racing for them madly. The Parson and the Doctor fly them together, and so shake themselves clear of the ruck, while a hard-riding Meltonian carries away a heap of them.

But where is Mrs. Talford?

There she is on the left, close to the hounds, yet well wide of them, slipping along with an easy grace, looking as if she was merely cantering, Queen Bee taking everything before her, and making as little of the fences as if they were the lowest of hurdles. How the deuce did she get there? everybody who has time to notice her wonders. But no one ever knows how she does get anywhere. No matter what sort of a start she gets, unless hopelessly thrown out Mrs. Talford before long is certain to be found sailing along in close proximity to the hounds.

Presently they come to a check in the road, but it is only for a minute, for Beadsman hits off the line on the far side, over the wall, and across the fallows. Some of the road-riders come up at this moment, and stare blankly at the wall. One, a stranger, seeing a lady, and not knowing who she is, vainly endeavours to open the gate (a low one), which is locked, and thereby prevents anybody else getting over.

"Thank you, sir; I think I can manage it," is all Mrs. Talford says in her quiet way, and in another minute the would-be "pew-opener" is greeted with a sight of Queen Bee's hind feet, and the lady has resumed her former place with the hounds.

"Well done, Mrs. Colonel!" says old Tom (he always calls her Mrs. Colonel). "We shall show them the road again to-day. It's the old line, straight for Marston. Hold up," to his horse, who dropped his hind legs in a ditch. "Yonder he goes," as he catches sight of the fox making the best of his way up the rising ground in the distance; and, contrary to his usual custom, he catches hold of the hounds and lifts them for nearly half a mile, thereby cutting off a big slice.

"Oh Tom, you shouldn't have done that," says Mrs. Talford, as soon as they have settled on to the line again. "They were hunting beautifully."

"Don't mean anyone to get in front of the Queen, Mrs. Colonel, this time," is all he vouchsafes as they gallop down a lane, thereby saving their horses, and nicking in again at the corner. A holloa from the right, close in front of the hounds, shows the rest of the field that the end is approaching, and the Melton detachment are riding their hardest to catch the Bullshire lady; but the only men who have as yet succeeded are Mr. Halston, the Master, and old Simms.

"It's over the brook, for a hundred, sir," shouts Tom, and he is right. With a splash that sends the water sparkling high in the air, the whole pack dash in, and are away on the other side racing in view.

"Surely she's not going to ride at that," men say to each other as Mrs. Talford catches her mare by the head.

But she is; and, with Sir John on the one side and the Parson on the other, she skims over like a bird. Old Tom's horse is done, and refuses, but being crammed at it again just gets over with a scramble. The rest ride at it in a body, some in, some over; some think better of it and turn back; but before any but the leading quartet are well over, Sir John's "who-whoop" rings out clear and loud, and tells them that they have again been beaten by "only a woman."

THE LADY WHO HUNTS AND DOES NOT RIDE.

If anyone could be found rash enough to hint to Mrs. Polson that in the hunting-field she was, to say the least of it, rather a bore than otherwise, the look of undisguised astonishment with which that individual's remarks would be met, ought, if he had any right feeling, to convince him that he was wrong; and that, if there was a woman in this world who was a useful addition to the Hunt, and who, wherever and whenever she thought proper to grace the scene, was always rapturously welcomed, that woman was Mrs. Polson, wife of Joseph Polson, Esq., M.P., better known as The Right Hon. J.P.

Although as yet no one has dared to breathe a word to the lady herself, there are men, and a large number to boot, who, among themselves, vote her a nuisance; in fact they have been known to say that she is "One of the most infernal nuisances out. Always in the way. Never happy unless she is talking horse and hound, and for ever trying to catch some unfortunate novice 'just to give her a lead here, or to open a gate there;' while to answer her questions a man needs to be a walking glossary."

I am afraid there is a deal of truth in what these unappreciative men say, for Mrs. Polson before she was married had never got farther in the equestrian art than an occasional ride on a shaggy pony when staying with her aunt in Devonshire, or the _haute école_ as practised up and down the King's Road at so much per hour when staying with her uncle at Brighton.

It was at the latter place that she met good-natured easy-going Joseph Polson; and when her father, who was rector of a small parish in Dorset, heard that his Letty had said "Yes" to a rich man, there were great rejoicings at the parsonage, for she was one of seven, and the living being by no means a large one, Mr. Becket found some difficulty in making both ends meet.

However, no sooner had she married Polson and settled down in Bullshire as the Member's wife, than she must needs become a hunting-woman, and, as a hunting-woman and the Member's wife, give herself airs. Perhaps among her acquaintances there is no one that she hates with such a cordial hatred as poor unoffending Mrs. Talford, for although when she meets her the greeting (on her side at all events) is most effusive, still, deep down in her memory, rankles a speech that she once overheard Mrs. Talford make to her husband. She had come up rather late, just as the hounds were moving off, and the Colonel and his wife, ignorant of her proximity, were discussing her powers of riding.

"My dear," said the Colonel, "I have not seen Mrs. Polson. Have you?"

"No," replied Mrs. Talford; "I don't suppose she is coming; it's rather a stiff country to-day;" and then, laughing, "how glad young Mr. Bevan will be. He said that she tacked herself on to him at Deanfield the other day, and after she had bored his life out for more than an hour, and made him open at least twenty gates, she asked him to come over some day and look at her hunters. It's a pity somebody can't tell her that men hate being bothered in the hunting-field."

Mrs. Polson's sudden appearance stopped further conversation on the subject. But from her over-affectionate manner ever since, Mrs. Talford knows perfectly well that the unlucky speech went farther than it was intended.

"Good morning, Tom. Got the dog-pack out to-day, I see, looking none the worse for Saturday," says Mrs. Polson as she rides up, followed by a groom bearing at his back a large sandwich-case, and at his saddle-bow a holster-flask filled with sherry and water (for the Member's wife does not see the fun of hunting without her luncheon).

"Get away, good dog, get away; 'war hoss,'" to Bellman, who leaves the main body of the pack in order to make a closer inspection of Mrs. P. or the sandwich-case.

"Mornin', mum," replies old Tom, doffing his cap; and then to avoid further conversation he calls away Bellman and trots off to a distant point, bringing the hounds back at a walk to allow time for her to "collar someone else," as he puts it.

While he is away on his little tour we may just glance at the external appearance of the Member's wife. Certainly she is not a good riding figure, being of the order "dumpy," and her seat in the saddle reminds one strongly of a plum-pudding on a dish. Her habit is a close copy of Mrs. Talford's, with the exception that it is much exaggerated. In the front of the collar, which is turned over, is displayed an elaborate necktie, with a fox's head painted on crystal as a pin, two heads of the same pattern serving as studs for her wristbands. She also affects the hunt-button, plain brass, with "B.H." in a monogram: and a hat-guard made of a small gold chain, secured to a most curly-brimmed hat by a fox's tooth, completes the dress; while the hunting-crop she carries in her fat little pudgy hand is more fitted for a First Whip than a lady, being, both heavy and cumbersome.

Tom evidently knows her pretty well, for before he returns from his self-imposed trot to his original place, Mrs. Polson has "collared someone else," and is making herself agreeable (or trying to) to two strangers who are staying with the Master for a week, and whom she has met at dinner at Lappington. A small group standing a little way off, after bowing, smile among themselves and pity the innocent strangers who, as young Bevan says, are "being let in for a day in waiting." "It's a shame of Lappington not to have put them on their guard," he continues; "I shall tell him so."

"She landed you once, Bevan, did not she?" asks another, laughing.

"Yes, but never again," is the reply. "Five-and-twenty gates to open, a treatise on scent, the pedigree of every hound in the pack, and some weak sherry-and-water, hardly compensate one for missing one of the best things of the season. By gad, we never saw hounds from the time they found till they killed, and yet to hear the woman talk, you would fancy she was in the first flight all the way. Look out, she is bearing down on us;" and the little group disperse, each one seemingly having caught sight of a man in the distance that he "must speak to for a moment."

Time's up now, and they move off to the big wood, Mrs. P. closely attended by the two strangers, to whom she has promised to show the country. They feel obliged, or rather under an obligation to her, and do not like to leave her side, though both think they would rather see the country for themselves without a cicerone. It is her day all over, for it is even betting they do not get out of the wood; and even if they do, what so convenient as a false turn down a ride that leads to nowhere? By the time they get outside hounds will be well away, and the only chance of catching them will be through that line of gates that Mrs. Polson knows so well.

As they come up to the wood the trio find their progress barred by a low rail, over which Tom has popped, followed by a good many of the field. The two strangers naturally suppose that so great a sportswoman as Mrs. Polson will make nothing of a small obstacle like the one before them, so one politely gives her a lead over, turning round on the other side to say: "It's rather a boggy place on the left, but if you jump well to the right you will find it quite firm," while the other holds back till the lady has successfully negotiated the fence.

They are a little surprised when she says, in the blandest possible tones: "I hope you will not think me a bore, but there is nothing I dislike so much as jumping in cold blood. It only takes it out of one's horse for nothing. If you would not mind taking that rail down--it drops off easily--I should be so much obliged."

This necessitates someone dismounting, and the man who gave the lead over has to get off and stand in a pool of muddy water, which he feels oozing through his boots, while he struggles manfully with the offending rail. At last his efforts are successful. Mrs. Poison gallops triumphantly through, splashing him all over as she passes.

"Oh, I am so sorry," she exclaims, when she sees what she has done. "It is my naughty horse; he can't bear to be kept waiting."

The splashed one is too polite to say much, but that does not prevent him from "thinking a lot;" and as he wipes the mud from his face he registers a vow to give my lady the slip on the first possible opportunity. This comes shortly, for a few minutes later there is an unmistakable find, and the hounds are seen tearing through the underwood to the right.

"This way--this way," pants Mrs. Polson, making the best of her road for a gate in an exactly opposite direction; "they are sure to turn to the left, and we shall be all right."

A view holloa on the right, followed by Tom's horn, decides the mud-bespattered gentleman, and he turns off, galloping down a ride which, as far as he can judge, leads to where he hears the hounds. He arrives just in time to see them top the bank, and when he finds himself well out of the wood, with some seven or eight men and one lady, who have got an equally good start, he congratulates himself on having escaped, and thinks how his friend must be gnashing his teeth. Luck, however, favours Mrs. Polson, for the hounds swing round to the left, and she and her attendant squire ride through a hand-gate just as they go by. "There, I told you we should be all right," she says, highly gratified with herself, yet the while casting an anxious glance round the field for a gate which is nowhere visible.

"For'ard on; he's away over the plough, Tom," shouts Sir John as he gallops up; and they race him down towards a most uncompromising-looking stake and bound. Mrs. Talford is first over, and her husband follows close in her wake. The emancipated sportsman goes next, and barely saves a fall; then comes a farmer on a stout cob, who goes crash through the whole fabric, rolling himself far into the next field, while the cob reposes in the ditch. However he has made a most convenient gap, at which the Member's wife keeps a score or more impatient people waiting, while she, holding her steed tight by the head, vainly endeavours to summon up sufficient courage to ride him over the place.

"Hang the woman; she's an impostor," mutters Stranger No. 2, now thoroughly exasperated, as he sees his friend sailing merrily away in the distance.

"Oh dear, I am afraid you must think me very tiresome," said Mrs. Polson to him; "I never knew my horse to refuse before; there must be something wrong with him. Please don't wait for me;" and, turning to her sandwich-bearer: "John, follow me down into the lane; I am afraid one of the horse's shoes are loose." Again, to her squire: "Please go on, I will catch you up again directly;" and she goes off to the road, where of course John finds the shoes, as he knew he would, perfectly tight. "Thank goodness for that," thinks her ex-equerry-in-waiting, making best haste to get to the hounds again; and as he manages to come up with them while Tom is making a cast, he tells his host the Master that he owes him one for not putting him up to Mrs. P. and her riding powers.

Sir John laughs and says: "All right, old boy, you won't see her again till we have killed or lost and are going to draw for a fresh one. She will have finished her lunch by then; but I daresay there will be some sherry-and-water left for you as a reward."

Before his marriage the hon. Member for Bullshire was a most punctual man; but now, somehow, he always turns up late, and is seldom, if ever, seen at the meet, or till hounds are running, when he will suddenly appear riding as forward as ever. When asked by his friends the reason for this strange behaviour, he merely winks and looks over towards where his estimable spouse may be seen in the far distance pounding along through the gates, followed by the faithful John with the luncheon.

THE SCHOOLBOYS.

For the last week parents have been receiving letters from young hopefuls, in which allusions have been made to the absolute necessity of sending by return of post some more pocket-money wherewith to liquidate sundry small accounts, and to enable him to give his friends who are "leaving this half" some presents.

Most of the documents have wound up with the announcement that there are only three or four days to the holidays, and with requests that John, or Thomas, or Sam may be told to get the pony fit for them to ride. In some instances the father, or, as the "young gentleman" prefers to call him, "the governor," has been reminded of his promise to buy a new horse; and as he knows full well that unless he does so the word "peace," so far as he is concerned, may be scratched out of the dictionary, Jimmy Holden is called into council and the animal is procured.

As the down-train runs into Lappington Station, four or five eager faces may be seen, one over the other, filling up the window of the railway carriage; and before the train has well stopped four or five equally eager bodies jump out; and the porters, without waiting for instructions, immediately proceed to empty the compartment of rugs, sticks, two-shilling novels, bags, and the numerous other items which invariably accompany a boy on his return from school.

"There's the governor, Charlie," says a bright-looking lad to his schoolfellow, whom he has brought home with him for the first fortnight of the holidays.

"How are you, Dick? and how is the pony?" exclaims another, addressing the neat-looking servant, who is evidently as pleased to see his young master as that worthy is to have put by his books for a time.

"No signs of frost; we shall be out to-morrow at The Grange," shouts a third, as he disappears within the portals of the booking-office.

The hero of the hour, however, is Harold Lappington, Sir John's youngest brother, a tall good-looking young fellow, who in the field is known to combine the fearlessness of youth with the knowledge of old age. He has come that morning from Eton, where he has been keeping his hand in by hunting the college beagles. Old Tom and his brother have come to meet him, and many of the other boys envy him the honour of shaking hands with so great a man as the Huntsman.

"By Guy, Mayster Harold, but you are growed, looking well and all," says Tom; and then, turning to the Master: "Eh, Sir John, ay's gettin' a rare-topped 'un."

"By Jove, Tom, there's no need to ask how you are, you're looking as fit as a fiddle. Is that young gray horse fit for me to ride? The one you had at the kennels, I mean," ejaculates Harold: and, receiving an answer in the affirmative, walks off with Sir John to where an obsequious porter is hoisting his traps into a dog-cart which is standing outside.

"Here, John," he says to his brother, as he jumps up, "I'm going to drive."

"Not if I know it," replies the Master. "I have not forgotten that last exploit of yours, when you upset me over a heap of stones."

But of course the boy has his way, and with a "Good-night, Tom," and a wave of the hand, they rattle round the corner, shaving the gate-post so close as to cause the Master to clench his teeth and hold on like grim death.

"Well," mutters Tom, when they, are out of sight, "there'll be some riding to-morrow, I know, and some tumbling too. I 'opes we gets away quick, for though I loves to see the lads go, they do myther (bother) me terrible at the first;" and he turns up the road towards the kennels, exchanging Good-nights and bright hopes for the morrow with the young occupants of the various traps as they pass him on their way to their respective homes.

By ten o'clock the next morning the road to The Grange is lively with the usual symptoms of a meet. Grooms with led-horses are riding alongside the tax-cart of the butcher or baker. Men and boys on foot keep up that peculiar kind of shuffle, half run, half walk, which is seen nowhere save in the country. The keeper and the poacher jostle one another and combine to chaff the merry vendor of crockery and hardware who, perched on the top of his wares and drawn by his trotting "moke," has chosen the centre of the road, somewhat to the inconvenience of those in his rear.

He is well able to hold his own, and gives as much as he gets. Indeed, in the matter of chaff, it takes the allied forces all their time to keep on even terms until they overtake the local policeman, when the channel of wit and repartee is diverted against "poor Robert," who of course being ignominiously defeated at once, takes refuge under official dignity, and thinks of the time when his turn will come.

The keepers have held aloof from the latter entertainment, for it would not be right to make a butt of the Law, they think; and so, joining him, all proceed towards The Grange as merry as crickets. Presently there is a shout from behind, and turning round they see old Tom and the pack, with many a bit of pink in his wake, and, what is more (in their own eyes, at all events), many an emancipated schoolboy.

"Lend us one of them dorgs to run under my carriage," says the itinerant hardware merchant as they pass him.

Tom rather winces at the word "dorgs" being applied to his darlings, and is preparing a stinging rejoinder; but before it is ready, Eton, Harrow, Rugby, and Winchester have (verbally) fallen on the rash jester and silenced him completely.

However, he manages to make his way to The Grange, and while there disposes of some of his crockery, and drinks Tom's health in some of Mr. Boulter's beer, calling him, by-the-way, "Lord Topboots."

Such greetings and chaff, too, among lads! Criticisms of their respective animals, mutual challenges, and hurried arrangements for all sorts of sport. The Secretary is not forgotten either, and various inquiries are made concerning "his last speech and what time he came home." At last the Master and his brother Harold drive up, and in a few moments are mounted and ready. One glass of sherry "Just to keep the Secretary in tune," as Harold says, and Tom, getting a nod, trots off to the wood about half a mile away.

"Charles," says he to the First Whip, "you get down to corner, and if so be as t' fox breaks, dunna holloa; just crack yer whip when ay's well away. Maybe then I shall have a chance of getting hounds on to the line."

On the road to the wood there are two small fences, and though the gates are open wide, with the exception of Harold Lappington, every boy has his pony over, into, or through them. A fall or two brings down a torrent of jeers on the unfortunates, and one youngster in particular, who goes careering round the field, half on, half off his animal, is most productive of sport.

"Stick to him, Johnny," shout some; "he's off; no he isn't; well saved," as, more by good luck than good management, he regains his seat, and comes back looking rather crestfallen. Some of the farmers think for a moment of their fences and what a lot of "making up" there will be on the morrow; but the joyous faces and boisterous spirits of the schoolboys are infectious, and they feel with old Simms, who said, when last year they broke three of his gates down and let his sheep out all over the country: "We were all boys once, and not a bit better. Bless 'em, they don't mean any harm, and I love 'em."

The first draw is a blank, much to the disappointment of all, Boulter in particular, for he catches it most unmercifully from all his young friends.

A move is then made for a piece of rough stuff called Shepherd's Gorse. Sir John has a difficult task to keep his field in order here, for it is a crooked in-and-out-shaped place, and the ponies will creep forward into forbidden corners. As fast as he orders one back he finds another expectant and overanxious youth somewhere else.

However, they are not kept long in suspense, for a quick find is followed by a ringing "Gone away," and his field gallop round to find Tom and the pack sailing along merrily, he having slipped off with the hounds well on to the line before he vouchsafed to proclaim his departure.

Hard work it is to catch them, for they are racing with a scent breast-high, but the schoolboys sit down and send their ponies along with a will, thinking no more of the big bank and ditch that confront them than they would if it was only a broken sheep-hurdle. Harold Lappington is first down to it, and his young gray pecks badly on the far side, for the animal is a bit fresh and over-jumps himself. Harold's fine seat, however, saves him from a fall, and turning round to where he sees young Charlie Whistler riding his pony, scarce thirteen hands three inches in height, at the biggest place he can find, he shouts: "Steady, Charlie; it's too big for you; take it in two, on and off."

"Go on," replies the monkey, "I'm all----" he would have said "right," but as he was turning head over heels like a rabbit before he could finish his sentence, he found further conversation somewhat difficult. Next in order came two hard-riding members with Sir John and Mrs. Talford, and then a whole crowd of horses and ponies, a good many of which plumbed the depths of the ditch on the landing-side. It is wonderful what a good pony will do with a resolute youngster on his back. Where it can't jump it will creep or climb, and generally manages to pull through somehow or other; but this particular fence is a rasper to commence with, and in most cases the cause of grief is over-excitement.

"You're a nice sort of fellow, Tom, slipping off like that," says Harold, as he comes up with the old Huntsman, who is gnashing his teeth because they've checked, and "Them blessed lads will be all among t' hounds again."

"What did you do it for?" he continues.

"Ah Mayster Harold; must get a start, or we should never get through all them ponies," replies Tom. "Here they come, by gad. That's it, praise the Lord," as the hounds hit it off just as the rest arrive.

"For'ard on," yell the lads, as pleased as Punch to have caught the hounds again.

"Harold, it's my idea the fox will make over the Swill," says Sir John to his brother, as they gallop along the grass. "There are two or three deuced stiff ploughs before we get there, and as you can't jump it we had better take the road and round by the bridge."

"Not I; I'm going with the hounds," replies Harold. "If they go over I can but go in and out."

"Don't you be a fool," retorts the Master. "By Jove, I'm right! it is for the Swill," as the hounds swung to the left towards the line of pollards that denote the course of that "meandering streamlet."

"Hold hard, young gentlemen, hold hard," roars Tom, as they hang for a moment on the plough, and five or six reeking ponies get unpleasantly near his darlings. "You canna jump Swill; you must go round by t' bridge."

But they pay no heed to either him or paternal warning, and pound away over the plough towards the willows.

"Here, I'm dashed if some on 'em won't get drownded, for they'll have it, as sure as my name's Wilding," he continues.

The two Simms and a few adventurous spirits follow in the wake of the lads, while the rest of the field follow the Master to the bridge. As the hounds plunge in Tom gallops off for the same goal, saying: "This way, young gents, this way." He might as well have spared his breath, for Eton is not going to be beaten by Harrow, nor Winchester by Rugby, nor Clifton by any of them, and the rivals feel the honour of their schools to be at stake. Harold again heads the charge, and the young 'un makes a gallant effort, just getting his fore-legs on the opposite bank. Quick as thought the boy is over his head on _terra firma_, while the gray falls back into the brook. "Bravo," shout the rest of the field, "bravo!" and, as his horse scrambles out, Harold's heart swells with pride, and he says to his brother: "The dear old school bested them all."

Harrow, Rugby, Winchester, and Clifton, all go at it in a lump, and all four are splashing about together, when little Phillips, a lad of twelve, who has just completed his first half, at Marlborough, comes down, and handling his rat of a pony down the bank, the pair swim across, and out the other side they scramble, the urchin shouting at the top of his voice: "Hooray, Eton first, Marlborough second."

All, happily, manage, contrary to Tom's expectations, to escape being "drownded;" and, wet as they are, ride harder than ever to make up their "leeway."

About a mile farther on the fox is viewed heading straight for Braby Main Earths, where he goes to ground with the pack close at his brush. Then paternal authority asserts itself, and the dripping schoolboys are promptly ordered home. They plead hard to stay, but paterfamilias is firm, and the lads turn to go with a last wistful look at Tom and the hounds.

It is late in the afternoon, and they have had a right down good gallop, thinks Sir John; so turning to the field he says: "Gentlemen, I shall send the hounds home. We will call this the schoolboys' day, and I am sure after the way they have ridden it would be a shame to go on without them."

THE BOASTER.

If one could only believe one quarter of the strange adventures, hairbreadth escapes, and marvellous performances in the field of which Mr. Story says he has been the hero, one might well set him down as a wonderful Nimrod. But, unfortunately, veracity does not form part of his character. He is good-natured, generous, hospitable, and amusing, yet one of the most confirmed liars in the country.

Not that he is what is known as a harmful liar, for he would as soon think of telling an anecdote reflecting on the character of any of his friends or acquaintances as he would of picking their pockets. No, his embroidery is strictly personal. It appertains solely to what he has done or can do, and such a habit has this become with him that he firmly believes every word he says, and will pledge his honour that such and such a thing happened, that he did this or that, the while relating some performance that effectually puts that prince of fibbers Baron Munchausen in the background.

Nothing seems to cure him. Over and over again has he been caught out by a sceptical audience, who have then and there endeavoured to put him to the blush, but it has been of no avail, for two minutes afterwards he will be romancing away as gaily as ever on some fresh subject. Men have got tired of trying to break him of it, and now only sit and laugh, acknowledging that "Old Story is devilish good fun though he is such a thundering liar."

Of course in the hunting-field he is the veriest impostor that ever got on a horse, never, if he can possibly help it, leaving the glorious safety of the hard highway. Yet the description of the run as told by him in the evening fairly takes your breath away, and, supposing you to be a stranger, makes you feel that you have come into a country the like of which you have never seen.

Sheep-hurdles are (according to Mr. Story) five-barred gates, the smallest ditch a veritable river; and as he turns to some one or the other guest at his table and says: "Did you notice that horse I was riding to-day? Deuced clever animal, I can tell you. Jumped a double post and rails with about twelve foot of water on the far side, and made nothing of them, 'pon my honour!" you wonder whether there are many fences of the same species to be encountered, or many horses with the same supreme contempt for them to be picked up in Bullshire.

Once in his life he did jump a brook, and it is even betting that before you have been long in his presence he will tell you all about it, though his version of the occurrence differs slightly from that of those who saw it.

They had been having a very slow hunting-run on a cold scent, barely out of a trot most of the time, the hounds picking it out inch by inch, and at last they came to a dead lock in a field, round two-thirds of which ran the Marston brook. Mr. Story, who had been as usual very prominent in the centre of the road, which ran conveniently adjacent, thought he might as well turn into the field through the gate, which he did.

Unfortunately for him there was a bull in the corner, which neither he nor anyone else had noticed, and just as the gate swung to and latched again, the hounds hit off the line and went over the brook. At the same moment the bull, having lashed himself into a rage, and maddened by the cry of the hounds, singled out Story's red coat and charged down on him. This startled his gallant steed. Away he went, followed by the bull, and, to everyone's intense astonishment and amusement, Story was seen on his horse's neck well over the water.

He himself will tell you that he cut the whole field down--"Pounded them, sir, on my honour, at the brook;" but the real facts of the case are those I have just narrated.

Most particular is Mr. Story as to his external appearance, and the bows of his well-fitting leathers are tied with a mathematical accuracy attainable only by long and patient manipulation, aided by the use of various scientific instruments, such as pincers and button-hooks, of which he keeps a large assortment. His necktie is the envy of half the men in the field, while the peculiar shade of his tops has caused more envy, hatred, and malice among the valets than one would have believed possible.

It is very fine to hear the contemptuous tone he assumes when dilating on the performances of those sportsmen who come under the head of the "galloping-and-jumping division." "Look at them," he will say. "I ask you, what do they know about hunting? They've only one idea--jump, jump, jump, all day. Now no one is fonder of a quick thing than I am, but you never see me galloping about, jumping over everything I can find" (the only true thing in his speech), "and yet when it comes to riding, I flatter myself I can give them a stone and a beating. Valpy! Faugh, a rough-rider, sir, a rough-rider. Nowhere in a run. Have beaten him over and over again, 'pon my honour. You remember that forty minutes we had," etc. etc.; and then follows a glowing description of some imaginary run over the stiffest part of the country, where Story had the hounds all to himself after the first ten minutes, and never saw a soul again till they had broken up their fox.

If he happens to be at his own house he will take you off to his den, and, by way of corroborating the tale, will point out the brush of the identical fox hanging over the mantelpiece, and handling it carefully, will say: "Ah, there is some satisfaction in having a brush that one gets all by one's self."

(Quite so, Mr. Story; but what was that small piece of gold for, that found its way out of your pocket into that of Charles the First Whip?)

Quite a museum of sport is Story's den, or "sanctum," as he calls it. Round the walls are hung innumerable sporting pictures, foxs' brushes and masks, all mounted, and bearing the date, length of run, find, and kill, emblazoned in gold letters underneath. On the left-hand side of the fireplace is a gun-cupboard, well stocked with breechloaders and rifles; for Story has some wonderful adventures in the Rocky Mountains to relate. Opposite, on the other side, is a stick-rack, crowded with crops, cutting-whips, ash-plants, spurs of all sizes, and hunting-caps; while underneath are arranged a pile of white band-boxes, each containing a shining Lincoln and Bennett. Between the windows are a row of hat-pegs, four in number, and on every peg hangs a hat reduced to the state of flatness said to be peculiar to pancakes.

Naturally one is struck with so novel an arrangement in dilapidated head-gear, and in a weak moment, perhaps, one asks "What on earth those old hats are for? Are they used in the summer to keep the birds from the peas, or what?"