‘Brace and a ha-r-r-f!’ drawls Slapp, in well-feigned disgust; ‘brace and a ha-r-r-f! -- why, it makes them ten brace, and six run to ground.’

‘Oh, don’t tell me,’ retorts Frosty, with a shake of disgust; ‘don’t tell me. I knows better -- I knows better. They’d only killed a brace since they began hunting up to yesterday. The rest were all cubs, poor things! -- all cubs, poor things! Mr Puffington’s hounds are not the sort of animals to kill foxes: nasty, skirtin’, flashy, jealous divils; always starin’ about for holloas and assistance. I’ll be damned if I’d give eighteenpence for the ’ole lot on ’em.’

A loud guffaw from the Flat Hat men greeted this wholesale condemnation. The Puffington men looked unutterable things, and there is no saying what disagreeable comparisons might have been instituted (for the Puffingtonians mustered strong) had not his lordship and Jack cast up at the moment. Hats off and politeness was then the order of the day.

‘Mornin’,’ said his lordship, with a snatch of his hat in return, as he pulled up and stared into the cloud- enveloped crowd; ‘Mornin’, Fyle; mornin’, Fossick,’ he continued, as he distinguished those worthies, as much by their hats as anything else. ‘Where are the horses?’ he said to Frostyface.

‘Just beyond there, my lord,’ replied the huntsman, pointing with his whip to where a cockaded servant was ‘to-and-froing’ a couple of hunters -- a brown and a chestnut.

‘Let’s be doing,’ said his lordship, trotting up to them and throwing himself off his hack like a sack. Having divested him-self of his muddy overalls, he mounted the brown, a splendid sixteen hands horse in tiptop condition, and again made for the field in all the pride of masterly equestrianism. A momentary gleam of sunshine shot o’er the scene; a jerk of the head acted as a signal to throw off, and away they all moved from the meet.

Thorneybush Gorse was a large eight-acre cover, formed partly of gorse and partly of stunted blackthorn, with here and there a sprinkling of Scotch firs. His lordship paid two pound a-year for it, having vainly tried to get it for thirty shillings, which was about the actual value of the land, but the proprietor claimed a little compensation for the trampling of horses about it; moreover the Puffington men would have taken it at two pounds. It was a sure find, and the hounds dashed into it with a scent.

The field ranged themselves at the accustomed corner, both hunts full of their previous day’s run. Frostyface’s ‘Yoicks, wind him!’ ‘Yoicks, push him up!’ was drowned in a medley of voices.

A loud clear shrill ‘Tally-ho, away!’ from the far side of the cover caused all tongues to stop, and all hands to drop on the reins. Great was the excitement! Each hunt was determined to take the shine out of the other.

‘Twang, twang, twang!’ ‘Tweet, tweet, tweet!’ went his lordship’s and Frostyface’s horns, as they came bounding over the gorse to the spot, with the eager pack rushing at their horses’ heels. Then, as the hounds crossed the line of scent, there was such an outburst of melody in cover, and such gathering of reins and thrusting on of hats outside! The hounds dashed out of cover as if somebody was kicking them. A man in scarlet was seen flying through the fog, producing the usual hold-hardings, ‘Hold hard, sir!’ ‘God bless you, hold hard, sir!’ with enquiries as to ‘who the chap was that was going to catch the fox.’

‘It’s Lumpleg!’ exclaimed one of the Flat Hat men.

‘No, it’s not!’ roared a Puffingtonite; ‘Lumpleg’s here.’

‘Then it’s Charley Slapp; he’s always doing it,’ rejoined the first speaker. ‘Most jealous man in the world.’