‘What have you done with him, Tom?’ asked Major Bouncer, eagerly bringing his sturdy collar-marked cob alongside of our huntsman.

‘Killed him, sir,’ replied Tom, with the slightest possible touch of the cap. (Bouncer was no tip.)

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Bouncer, gaily, with that sort of sham-satisfaction that most people express about things that can’t concern them in the least. ‘Indeed! I’m deuced glad of that! Where did you kill him?’

‘At the back of Mr Plummey’s farm-buildings, at Shapwick,’ replied Tom; adding, ‘but, my word, he led us a dance afore we got there -- up to Ditchington, down to Somerby, round by Temple Bell Wood, cross Goosegreen Common, then away for Stubbington Brooms, skirtin’ Sanderwick Plantations, but scarce goin’ into ’em, then by the round hill at Camerton, leavin’ Great Heatherton to the right, and so straight on to Shapwick, where we killed, with every hound up -- ’

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Bouncer, apparently lost in admiration, though he scarcely knew the country; ‘God bless me!’ repeated he, ‘what a run! The finest run that ever was seen.’

‘Nine miles in twenty-five minutes,’ replied Tom, tacking on a little both for time and distance.

‘B--o--y JOVE!’ exclaimed the major.

Having shaken hands with and congratulated Mr Waffles most eagerly and earnestly, the major hurried of to tell as much as he could remember to the first person he met, just as the cheese-bearer at a christening looks out for someone to give the cheese to. The cheese-getter on this occasion was Doctor Lotion, who was going to visit old Jackey Thompson, of Woolleyburn. Jackey being then in a somewhat precarious state of health, and tolerably advanced in life, without any very self-evident heir, was obnoxious to the attentions of three distinct litters of cousins, someone or other of whom was constantly ‘baying him.’ Lotion, though a sapient man, and somewhat grinding in his practice, did not profess to grind old people young again, and feeling he could do very little for the body corporate, directed his attention to amusing Jackey’s mind, and anything in the shape of gossip was extremely acceptable to the doctor to retail to his patient. Moreover, Jackey had been a bit of a sportsman, and was always extremely happy to see the hounds -- on anybody’s land but his own.

So Lotion got primed with the story, and having gone through the usual routine of asking his patient how he was, how he had slept, looking at his tongue, and reporting on the weather, when the old posing question, ‘What’s the news?’ was put, Lotion replied, as he too often had to reply, for he was a very slow hand at picking up information.

‘Nothin’ particklar, I think, sir; ‘adding, in an off-hand sort of way, ‘you’ve heard of the greet run, I s’pose, sir?’

‘Great run!’ exclaimed the octogenarian, as if it was a matter of the most vital importance to him; ‘great run, sir; no, sir, not a word!’

The doctor then retailed it.

Old Jackey got possessed of this one idea -- he thought of nothing else. Whoever came, he out with it, chapter and verse, with occasional variations. He told it to all the ‘cousins in waiting’; Jackey Thompson, of Carrington Ford; Jackey Thompson, of Houndesley; Jackey Thompson, of the Mill; and all the Bobs, Bills, Sams, Harries, and Peters, composing the respective litters; forgetting where he got it from, he nearly told it back to Lotion himself. We sometimes see old people affected this way -- far more enthusiastic on a subject than young ones. Few dread the aspect of affairs so much as those who have little chance of seeing how they go.