Mrs Watchorn was too well drilled to dwell upon orders, and she met her lord and master in the passage with the enumerated articles in her hand. Watchorn having deposited himself on an entrance-hall chair -- for it was a roomy, well-furnished house, having been the steward’s while there was anything to take care of -- Mrs Watchorn proceeded to strip off his gaiters while he drew on his, boots and crowned himself with his cap. Mrs Watchorn then buckled on his spurs, and he hurried off, horn in hand, desiring her to have him a basin of turtle-soup ready against he came in; adding, ‘She knew where to get it.’ The frosty air then resounded with the twang, twang, twang of his horn, and hounds began drawing up from all quarters, just as sportsmen cast up at a meet from no one knows where.

‘He-here, hounds -- be-here, good dogs!’ cried he, coaxing and making much of the first-comers: ‘he -- here, Galloper, old boy!’ continued he, diving into his coat-pocket, and throwing him a bit of biscuit. The appearance of food had a very encouraging effect, for forthwith there was a general rush towards Watchorn, and it was only by rating and swinging his ‘whop’ about that he prevented the pack from pawing, and perhaps downing him. At length, having got them somewhat tranquillised, he set off on his return to the stables, coaxing the shy hounds, and rating and rapping those that seemed inclined to break away. Thus he managed to march into the stable-yard in pretty good order, just as, the house party arrived in the opposite direction, attired in the most extraordinary and incongruous habiliments. There was Bob Spangles, in a swallow-tailed, mulberry-coloured scarlet, that looked like an old pen-wiper, white duck trousers, and lack-lustre Napoleon boots; Captain Cutitfat, in a smart new Moses and Son’s straight-cut scarlet, with blood-hound heads on the buttons, yellow-ochre leathers, and Wellington boots with drab knee-caps; little Bouncey in a tremendously baggy long-backed scarlet, whose gaping outside-pockets showed that they had carried its late owner’s hands as well as his handkerchief; the clumsy device on the tarnished buttons looking quite as much like sheep’s-heads as foxes’. Bouncey’s tight tweed trousers were thrust into a pair of wide fisherman’s boots, which, but for his little roundabout stomach, would have swallowed him up bodily. Captain Quod appeared in a venerable dress-coat of the Melton Hunt, made in the popular reign of Mr Errington, whose much-stained and smeared silk facings bore testimony to the good cheer it had seen. As if in contrast to the light airiness of this garment, Quod had on a tremendously large shaggy brown waistcoat, with horn buttons, a double tier of pockets, and a nick out in front. With an unfair partiality his nether man was attired in a pair of shabby old black, or rather brown, dress trousers, thrust into long Wellington boots with brass heel spurs. Captain Seedeybuck had on a spruce swallow- tailed green coat of Sir Harry’s, a pair of old tweed trousers of his own, thrust into long chamois-leather opera-boots, with red morocco tops, giving the whole a very unique and novel appearance. Mr Orlando Bugles, though going to drive with my lady, thought it incumbent to put on his jack-boots, and appeared in kerseymere shorts, and a highly frogged and furred blue frock-coat, with the corner of a musked cambric kerchief acting the part of a star on his breast.

‘Here comes old sixteen-string’d Jack?’ exclaimed Bob Spangles, as his brother-in-law, Sir Harry, came hitching and limping along, all strings, and tapes, and ends, as usual, followed by Mr Sponge in the strict and severe order of sporting costume; double-stitched, back-stitched, sleeve-strapped, pull-devil, pull-baker coat, broad corduroy vest with fox-teeth buttons, still broader corded breeches, and the redoubtable vinegar tops. ‘Now we’re all ready!’ exclaimed Bob, working his arms as if anxious to be off, and giving a shrill shilling-gallery whistle with his fingers, causing the stable-doors to fly open, and the variously tackled steeds to emerge from their stalls.

‘A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!’ exclaimed Miss Glitters, running up as fast as her long habit, or rather Lady Scattercash’s long habit, would allow her. ‘A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!’ repeated she, diving into the throng.

‘White Surrey is saddled for the field,’ replied Mr Orlando Bugles, drawing himself up pompously, and waving his right hand gracefully towards her ladyship’s Arab palfrey, inwardly congratulating himself that Miss Glitters was going to be bumped upon it instead of him.

‘Give us a leg up, Seedey!’ exclaimed Lucy Glitters to the ‘gent’ of the green coat, fearing that Miss Howard, who was a little behind, might claim the horse.