Further conversation is prevented, for the time, by the necessity under which Mr. Bagnet finds himself of directing the whole force of his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the dry humour of the fowls in not yielding any gravy, and also by the made gravy acquiring no flavour and turning out of a flaxen complexion. With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble off forks in the process of peeling, upheaving from their centres in every direction, as if they were subject to earthquakes. The legs of the fowls, too, are longer than could be desired, and extremely scaly. Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last dishes and they sit down at table, Mrs. Bagnet occupying the guest's place at his right hand.

Further conversation is prevented, as Mr. Bagnet needs to direct the whole force of his mind to the dinner, which is a little endangered by the fowls not yielding any gravy. With a similar perverseness, the potatoes crumble in the process of peeling. The legs of the fowls, too, are extremely scaly. Overcoming these disadvantages to the best of his ability, Mr. Bagnet at last serves up and they sit down at table.


It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year, for two such indulgences in poultry might be injurious. Every kind of finer tendon and ligament that is in the nature of poultry to possess is developed in these specimens in the singular form of guitar-strings. Their limbs appear to have struck roots into their breasts and bodies, as aged trees strike roots into the earth. Their legs are so hard as to encourage the idea that they must have devoted the greater part of their long and arduous lives to pedestrian exercises and the walking of matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a most severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old girl would not cause him a moment's disappointment on any day, least of all on such a day, for any consideration, she imperils her digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the drum-sticks without being of ostrich descent, his anxious mother is at a loss to understand.

It is well for the old girl that she has but one birthday in a year, for two such indulgences might be harmful. Every kind of tendon and ligament that poultry possesses is developed in these specimens in the singular form of guitar-strings. Their legs are as hard as if they devoted their long and arduous lives to walking matches. But Mr. Bagnet, unconscious of these little defects, sets his heart on Mrs. Bagnet eating a severe quantity of the delicacies before her; and as that good old girl would not cause him a moment's disappointment, she imperils her digestion fearfully. How young Woolwich cleans the chicken drum-sticks, his anxious mother is at a loss to understand.


The old girl has another trial to undergo after the conclusion of the repast in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept, and the dinner-service washed up and polished in the backyard. The great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply themselves to these duties, turning up their skirts in imitation of their mother and skating in and out on little scaffolds of pattens, inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the present. The same causes lead to confusion of tongues, a clattering of crockery, a rattling of tin mugs, a whisking of brooms, and an expenditure of water, all in excess, while the saturation of the young ladies themselves is almost too moving a spectacle for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon with the calmness proper to her position. At last the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.

The old girl has another trial to undergo after the meal, in sitting in state to see the room cleared, the hearth swept, and the dinner-service washed and polished in the backyard. The great delight and energy with which the two young ladies apply themselves to these duties inspire the highest hopes for the future, but some anxiety for the present. The saturation of the young ladies is almost too moving for Mrs. Bagnet to look upon with calmness.
At last the various cleansing processes are triumphantly completed; Quebec and Malta appear in fresh attire, smiling and dry; pipes, tobacco, and something to drink are placed upon the table; and the old girl enjoys the first peace of mind she ever knows on the day of this delightful entertainment.


When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very near to half-past four; as they mark it accurately, Mr. Bagnet announces, "George! Military time."

When Mr. Bagnet takes his usual seat, the hands of the clock are very near to half-past four; and he announces, "George! Military time."


It is George, and he has hearty congratulations for the old girl (whom he kisses on the great occasion), and for the children, and for Mr. Bagnet. "Happy returns to all!" says Mr. George.

George arrives, and has hearty congratulations for the old girl.


"But, George, old man!" cries Mrs. Bagnet, looking at him curiously. "What's come to you?"


"Ah! You are so white, George--for you--and look so shocked. Now don't he, Lignum?"

You are so white - and look so shocked. Now don't he, Lignum?"


"George," says Mr. Bagnet, "tell the old girl. What's the matter."


"I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked, and I'm sorry I do. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over."

"I didn't know I looked white," says the trooper, passing his hand over his brow, "and I didn't know I looked shocked. But the truth is, that boy who was taken in at my place died yesterday afternoon, and it has rather knocked me over."


"Poor creetur!" says Mrs. Bagnet with a mother's pity. "Is he gone? Dear, dear!"


"I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday talk, but you have got it out of me, you see, before I sit down. I should have roused up in a minute," says the trooper, making himself speak more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet."

"I didn't mean to say anything about it, for it's not birthday talk," says the trooper, making himself speak more gaily, "but you're so quick, Mrs. Bagnet."


"You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Is as quick. As powder."

"You're right. The old girl," says Mr. Bagnet, "is as quick. As gunpowder."


"And what's more, she's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to her," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little brooch along with me. It's a poor thing, you know, but it's a keepsake. That's all the good it is, Mrs. Bagnet."

"She's the subject of the day, and we'll stick to her," cries Mr. George. "See here, I have brought a little brooch as a keepsake, Mrs. Bagnet."


Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring leapings and clappings by the young family, and with a species of reverential admiration by Mr. Bagnet. "Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Tell him my opinion of it."

Mr. George produces his present, which is greeted with admiring clappings by the young family.
"Old girl," says Mr. Bagnet. "Tell him my opinion of it."


"Why, it's a wonder, George!" Mrs. Bagnet exclaims. "It's the beautifullest thing that ever was seen!"


"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it on all sides and holding it out at arm's length, "that it seems too choice for me."

"It's so pretty, George," cries Mrs. Bagnet, turning it over, "that it seems too choice for me."


"Bad!" says Mr. Bagnet. "Not my opinion."


"But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrained soldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for good luck, if you will, George."

"A hundred thousand thanks, old fellow," says Mrs. Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure and her hand stretched out to him; "and though I have been a crossgrained soldier's wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for good luck, George."


The children close up to see it done, and Mr. Bagnet looks over young Woolwich's head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs. Bagnet cannot help laughing in her airy way and saying, "Oh, Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap you are!" But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. "Would any one believe this?" says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. "I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!"

But the trooper's hand shakes, and the brooch falls off. "Would anyone believe this?" says he, catching it as it drops. "I am so out of sorts that I bungle an easy job like this!"


Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a pipe, and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place and the pipes to be got into action. "If that don't bring you round, George," says she, "just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and the two together MUST do it."

Mrs. Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a pipe, and fastening the brooch herself, causes the trooper to sit in his usual snug place and the pipes to be got into action.


"You ought to do it of yourself," George answers; "I know that very well, Mrs. Bagnet. I'll tell you how, one way and another, the blues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. 'Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him."

"The blues have got too many for me," admits George. "Here was this poor lad dying, and I was not able to help him."


"What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under your roof."


"I helped him so far, but that's little. I mean, Mrs. Bagnet, there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped out of that."


"Then," says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his heavy hand over his hair, "that brought up Gridley in a man's mind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up in a man's mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly--it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you."

And then, it made me remember Gridley. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up in a my mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. Hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly - it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you."


"My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe and tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the health altogether."

"My advice to you," returns Mrs. Bagnet, "is to light your pipe and tingle that way. It's wholesomer and comfortabler."


"You're right," says the trooper, "and I'll do it."


So he does it, though still with an indignant gravity that impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr. Bagnet to defer the ceremony of drinking Mrs. Bagnet's health, always given by himself on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies having composed what Mr. Bagnet is in the habit of calling "the mixtur," and George's pipe being now in a glow, Mr. Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following terms.

So he does it. Once George's pipe is in a glow, Mr. Bagnet proceeds to the toast of the evening.


"George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day's march. And you won't find such another. Here's towards her!"

"George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day's march. And you won't find such another. Here's to her!"


The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model composition is limited to the three words "And wishing yours!" which the old girl follows up with a nod at everybody in succession and a well-regulated swig of the mixture. This she again follows up, on the present occasion, by the wholly unexpected exclamation, "Here's a man!"

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs. Bagnet returns thanks in a neat address of equal brevity: "And wishing yours!" which she follows up with a nod at everybody and a swig of the mixture. This she again follows up by the wholly unexpected exclamation, "Here's a man!"


Here IS a man, much to the astonishment of the little company, looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man--a quick keen man--and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once, individually and collectively, in a manner that stamps him a remarkable man.

Here is a man, much to everyone's astonishment, looking in at the parlour-door. He is a sharp-eyed man - a quick keen man - and he takes in everybody's look at him, all at once, in a remarkable manner.


"George," says the man, nodding, "how do you find yourself?"


"Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was going down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the musical instruments in the shop-window--a friend of mine is in want of a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone--and I saw a party enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner; I thought I couldn't be mistaken. How goes the world with you, George, at the present moment? Pretty smooth? And with you, ma'am? And with you, governor? And Lord," says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, "here's children too! You may do anything with me if you only show me children. Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who YOUR father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!"

"Yes," says the man, coming in and closing the door. "I was going down the street here when I happened to stop and look in at the musical instruments in the shop-window - a friend of mine is in want of a second-hand cello - and I saw a party enjoying themselves, and I thought it was you in the corner. How goes the world with you, George? And with you, ma'am? And with you, governor? And Lord," says Mr. Bucket, opening his arms, "here's children too! Give us a kiss, my pets. No occasion to inquire who your father and mother is. Never saw such a likeness in my life!"


Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "You pretty dears," says Mr. Bucket, "give us another kiss; it's the only thing I'm greedy in. Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of these two, ma'am? I should put 'em down at the figures of about eight and ten."

Mr. Bucket, not unwelcome, has sat himself down next to Mr. George and taken Quebec and Malta on his knees. "Lord bless you, how healthy you look! And what may be the ages of these two, ma'am? I should put 'em at about eight and ten."


"You're very near, sir," says Mrs. Bagnet.


"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of children. A friend of mine has had nineteen of 'em, ma'am, all by one mother, and she's still as fresh and rosy as the morning. Not so much so as yourself, but, upon my soul, she comes near you! And what do you call these, my darling?" pursues Mr. Bucket, pinching Malta's cheeks. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And what do you think about father? Do you think father could recommend a second-hand wiolinceller of a good tone for Mr. Bucket's friend, my dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?"

"I generally am near," returns Mr. Bucket, "being so fond of children. And what do you call these, my darling?" he pursues, pinching Malta's cheeks. "These are peaches, these are. Bless your heart! And do you think father could recommend a second-hand cello for Mr. Bucket's friend, my dear? My name's Bucket. Ain't that a funny name?"


These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. Bagnet forgets the day to the extent of filling a pipe and a glass for Mr. Bucket and waiting upon him hospitably. She would be glad to receive so pleasant a character under any circumstances, but she tells him that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to see him this evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.

These blandishments have entirely won the family heart. Mrs. Bagnet fills a pipe and a glass for Mr. Bucket and she tells him that as a friend of George's she is particularly glad to see him this evening, for George has not been in his usual spirits.


"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, I never heard of such a thing! What's the matter, George? You don't intend to tell me you've been out of spirits. What should you be out of spirits for? You haven't got anything on your mind, you know."

"Not in his usual spirits?" exclaims Mr. Bucket. "Why, what's the matter, George? What should you be out of spirits for? You haven't got anything on your mind, you know."


"Nothing particular," returns the trooper.


"I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have on your mind, you know! And have these pets got anything on THEIR minds, eh? Not they, but they'll be upon the minds of some of the young fellows, some of these days, and make 'em precious low-spirited. I ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma'am."

"I should think not," rejoins Mr. Bucket. "What could you have on your mind, you know! These pets'll be upon the minds of some of the young fellows, some of these days. I ain't much of a prophet, but I can tell you that, ma'am."


Mrs. Bagnet, quite charmed, hopes Mr. Bucket has a family of his own.


"There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket. "Would you believe it? No, I haven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, but no. So it is. Worldly goods are divided unequally, and man must not repine. What a very nice backyard, ma'am! Any way out of that yard, now?"

"There, ma'am!" says Mr. Bucket. "No, I haven't. My wife and a lodger constitute my family. Mrs. Bucket is as fond of children as myself and as wishful to have 'em, but no. So it is. Man must not repine. What a very nice backyard, ma'am! Any way out of that yard, now?"


"Ain't there really?" says Mr. Bucket. "I should have thought there might have been. Well, I don't know as I ever saw a backyard that took my fancy more. Would you allow me to look at it? Thank you. No, I see there's no way out. But what a very good-proportioned yard it is!"

"Well, I don't know as I ever saw a backyard that took my fancy more," says Mr. Bucket. "Would you allow me to look at it? Thank you. No, I see there's no way out. But what a very good-proportioned yard it is!"


Having cast his sharp eye all about it, Mr. Bucket returns to his chair next his friend Mr. George and pats Mr. George affectionately on the shoulder.

Mr. Bucket returns to his chair and pats Mr. George affectionately on the shoulder.


"That's your sort!" says Mr. Bucket. "Why should you ever have been otherwise? A man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to be out of spirits. That ain't a chest to be out of spirits, is it, ma'am? And you haven't got anything on your mind, you know, George; what could you have on your mind!"

"That's your sort!" says Mr. Bucket. "A man of your fine figure and constitution has no right to be out of spirits. And you haven't got anything on your mind, you know, George!


Somewhat harping on this phrase, considering the extent and variety of his conversational powers, Mr. Bucket twice or thrice repeats it to the pipe he lights, and with a listening face that is particularly his own. But the sun of his sociality soon recovers from this brief eclipse and shines again.


"And this is brother, is it, my dears?" says Mr. Bucket, referring to Quebec and Malta for information on the subject of young Woolwich. "And a nice brother he is--half-brother I mean to say. For he's too old to be your boy, ma'am."

And this is your brother, is it, my dears?" he says to Quebec and Malta, referring to young Woolwich. "Half-brother, I mean to say. For he's too old to be your boy, ma'am."


"I can certify at all events that he is not anybody else's," returns Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.

"He is not anybody else's," returns Mrs. Bagnet, laughing.


"Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no denying. Lord, he's wonderfully like you! But about what you may call the brow, you know, THERE his father comes out!" Mr. Bucket compares the faces with one eye shut up, while Mr. Bagnet smokes in stolid satisfaction.

"Well, you do surprise me! Yet he's like you, there's no denying!"


This is an opportunity for Mrs. Bagnet to inform him that the boy is George's godson.

Mrs. Bagnet informs him that the boy is George's godson.


"George's godson, is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket with extreme cordiality. "I must shake hands over again with George's godson. Godfather and godson do credit to one another. And what do you intend to make of him, ma'am? Does he show any turn for any musical instrument?"

"Is he?" rejoins Mr. Bucket cordially. "I must shake hands with George's godson. And what do you intend to make of him, ma'am? Does he show any turn for any musical instrument?"


Mr. Bagnet suddenly interposes, "Plays the fife. Beautiful."


"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by the coincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? Not in a scientific way, as I expect he does, but by ear. Lord bless you! 'British Grenadiers'--there's a tune to warm an Englishman up! COULD you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?"

"Would you believe it, governor," says Mr. Bucket, struck by the coincidence, "that when I was a boy I played the fife myself? 'British Grenadiers' - there's a tune to warm an Englishman up! Could you give us 'British Grenadiers,' my fine fellow?"


Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle than this call upon young Woolwich, who immediately fetches his fife and performs the stirring melody, during which performance Mr. Bucket, much enlivened, beats time and never fails to come in sharp with the burden, "British Gra-a-anadeers!" In short, he shows so much musical taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket receives the harmonious impeachment so modestly, confessing how that he did once chaunt a little, for the expression of the feelings of his own bosom, and with no presumptuous idea of entertaining his friends, that he is asked to sing. Not to be behindhand in the sociality of the evening, he complies and gives them "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms." This ballad, he informs Mrs. Bagnet, he considers to have been his most powerful ally in moving the heart of Mrs. Bucket when a maiden, and inducing her to approach the altar--Mr. Bucket's own words are "to come up to the scratch."

Nothing could be more acceptable to the little circle. Woolwich immediately fetches his fife and performs the stirring melody, while Mr. Bucket beats time and comes in sharp with the chorus, "British Gra-a-anadeers!" In short, he shows so much musical taste that Mr. Bagnet actually takes his pipe from his lips to express his conviction that he is a singer. Mr. Bucket modestly confesses, and is asked to sing. He complies and gives them "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms."


This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the evening that Mr. George, who testified no great emotions of pleasure on his entrance, begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to get on with, that it is something to have made him known there. Mr. Bagnet becomes, after another pipe, so sensible of the value of his acquaintance that he solicits the honour of his company on the old girl's next birthday. If anything can more closely cement and consolidate the esteem which Mr. Bucket has formed for the family, it is the discovery of the nature of the occasion. He drinks to Mrs. Bagnet with a warmth approaching to rapture, engages himself for that day twelvemonth more than thankfully, makes a memorandum of the day in a large black pocket-book with a girdle to it, and breathes a hope that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner, sisters. As he says himself, what is public life without private ties? He is in his humble way a public man, but it is not in that sphere that he finds happiness. No, it must be sought within the confines of domestic bliss.

This sparkling stranger is such a new and agreeable feature in the evening that Mr. George begins, in spite of himself, to be rather proud of him. He is so friendly, is a man of so many resources, and so easy to get on with, that Mr. Bagnet asks for the honour of his company on the old girl's next birthday. On discovering the nature of the occasion, Mr. Bucket drinks to Mrs. Bagnet with warmth, makes a memorandum of the day in a large black pocket-book, and breathes a hope that Mrs. Bucket and Mrs. Bagnet may before then become, in a manner, sisters.


It is natural, under these circumstances, that he, in his turn, should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for so promising an acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. Whatever the subject of the conversation, he keeps a tender eye upon him. He waits to walk home with him. He is interested in his very boots and observes even them attentively as Mr. George sits smoking cross-legged in the chimney-corner.

It is natural that he, in his turn, should remember the friend to whom he is indebted for this acquaintance. And he does. He keeps very close to him. He waits to walk home with him.


At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr. Bucket, with the secret sympathy of friendship, also rises. He dotes upon the children to the last and remembers the commission he has undertaken for an absent friend.

At length Mr. George rises to depart. At the same moment Mr. Bucket also rises. He remembers the commission he has undertaken.


"Respecting that second-hand wiolinceller, governor--could you recommend me such a thing?"

"Respecting that second-hand cello, governor - could you recommend me such a thing?"


"I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand. "You're a friend in need. A good tone, mind you! My friend is a regular dab at it. Ecod, he saws away at Mozart and Handel and the rest of the big-wigs like a thorough workman. And you needn't," says Mr. Bucket in a considerate and private voice, "you needn't commit yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to pay too large a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper percentage and be remunerated for your loss of time. That is but fair. Every man must live, and ought to it."

"I am obliged to you," returns Mr. Bucket, squeezing his hand. "A good tone, mind you! And you needn't commit yourself to too low a figure, governor. I don't want to pay too large a price for my friend, but I want you to have your proper percentage. That is only fair.


Mr. Bagnet shakes his head at the old girl to the effect that they have found a jewel of price.


"Suppose I was to give you a look in, say, at half arter ten to-morrow morning. Perhaps you could name the figures of a few wiolincellers of a good tone?" says Mr. Bucket.

Suppose I was to look in, say, at half arter ten tomorrow morning?"


Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet both engage to have the requisite information ready and even hint to each other at the practicability of having a small stock collected there for approval.

Nothing easier. Mr. and Mrs. Bagnet engage to have the information ready and even hint at having a small stock of instruments collected there for approval.


"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket, "thank you. Good night, ma'am. Good night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life."

"Thank you," says Mr. Bucket. "Good night, ma'am. Good night, governor. Good night, darlings. I am much obliged to you for one of the pleasantest evenings I ever spent in my life."


They, on the contrary, are much obliged to him for the pleasure he has given them in his company; and so they part with many expressions of goodwill on both sides. "Now George, old boy," says Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" As they go down the little street and the Bagnets pause for a minute looking after them, Mrs. Bagnet remarks to the worthy Lignum that Mr. Bucket "almost clings to George like, and seems to be really fond of him."

So they part with many expressions of goodwill on both sides. "Now George, old boy," says Mr. Bucket, taking his arm at the shop-door, "come along!" As they go away down the little street, Mrs. Bagnet remarks that Mr. Bucket "almost clings to George, and seems to be really fond of him."


The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little inconvenient to walk there two abreast and arm in arm. Mr. George therefore soon proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, who cannot make up his mind to relinquish his friendly hold, replies, "Wait half a minute, George. I should wish to speak to you first." Immediately afterwards, he twists him into a public-house and into a parlour, where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door.

The neighbouring streets being narrow and ill-paved, it is a little inconvenient to walk there two abreast. Mr. George proposes to walk singly. But Mr. Bucket, without relinquishing his friendly hold, replies, "Wait half a minute, George. I wish to speak to you first." He twists him into a public-house and into a parlour, where he confronts him and claps his own back against the door.


"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship is friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have endeavoured to make things pleasant to-night, and I put it to you whether I have done it or not. You must consider yourself in custody, George."

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "duty is duty, and friendship is friendship. I never want the two to clash if I can help it. I have endeavoured to make things pleasant tonight, but you must consider yourself in custody, George."


"Custody? What for?" returns the trooper, thunderstruck.


"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, urging a sensible view of the case upon him with his fat forefinger, "duty, as you know very well, is one thing, and conversation is another. It's my duty to inform you that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You don't happen to have heard of a murder?"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "it's my duty to inform you that any observations you may make will be liable to be used against you. Therefore, George, be careful what you say. You don't happen to have heard of a murder?"


"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger in an impressive state of action, "bear in mind what I've said to you. I ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I say, you don't happen to have heard of a murder?"

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "bear in mind what I've said to you. I ask you nothing. You've been in low spirits this afternoon. I say, you don't happen to have heard of a murder?"


"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself. I'm a-going to tell you what I want you for. There has been a murder in Lincoln's Inn Fields--gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for that."

"Now, George," says Mr. Bucket, "don't you go and commit yourself. There has been a murder in Lincoln's Inn Fields - gentleman of the name of Tulkinghorn. He was shot last night. I want you for that."


The trooper sinks upon a seat behind him, and great drops start out upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.

The trooper sinks upon a seat, and great drops start out upon his forehead, and a deadly pallor overspreads his face.


"Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed and that you suspect ME?"

"Bucket! It's not possible that Mr. Tulkinghorn has been killed and that you suspect me?"


"George," returns Mr. Bucket, keeping his forefinger going, "it is certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done last night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt."

"George," returns Mr. Bucket, his forefinger wagging, "it is certainly possible, because it's the case. This deed was done last night at ten o'clock. Now, you know where you were last night at ten o'clock, and you'll be able to prove it, no doubt."


"Last night! Last night?" repeats the trooper thoughtfully. Then it flashes upon him. "Why, great heaven, I was there last night!"


"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket with great deliberation. "So I have understood. Likewise you've been very often there. You've been seen hanging about the place, and you've been heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible--I don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible--that he may have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous fellow."

"So I have understood, George," returns Mr. Bucket with great deliberation. "You've been seen hanging about the place, and you've been heard more than once in a wrangle with him, and it's possible - I don't say it's certainly so, mind you, but it's possible - that he may have been heard to call you a threatening, murdering, dangerous fellow."


The trooper gasps as if he would admit it all if he could speak.


"Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table with an air of business rather in the upholstery way than otherwise, "my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant. I tell you plainly there's a reward out, of a hundred guineas, offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and me have always been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as any other man. On all of which accounts, I should hope it was clear to you that I must have you, and that I'm damned if I don't have you. Am I to call in any assistance, or is the trick done?"

"Now, George," continues Mr. Bucket, putting his hat upon the table, "my wish is, as it has been all the evening, to make things pleasant. There's a reward out, of a hundred guineas, offered by Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. You and me have always been pleasant together; but I have got a duty to discharge; and if that hundred guineas is to be made, it may as well be made by me as any other man. On all of which accounts, I hope it was clear to you that I must arrest you. Am I to call in any assistance, or is it done?"


Mr. George has recovered himself and stands up like a soldier. "Come," he says; "I am ready."


"George," continues Mr. Bucket, "wait a bit!" With his upholsterer manner, as if the trooper were a window to be fitted up, he takes from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge, George, and such is my duty."

"Wait a bit!" Mr. Bucket takes from his pocket a pair of handcuffs. "This is a serious charge, George, and such is my duty."


The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates a moment, but holds out his two hands, clasped together, and says, "There! Put them on!"

The trooper flushes angrily and hesitates, but holds out his two hands. "There! Put them on!"


Mr. Bucket adjusts them in a moment. "How do you find them? Are they comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as is consistent with my duty, and I've got another pair in my pocket." This remark he offers like a most respectable tradesman anxious to execute an order neatly and to the perfect satisfaction of his customer. "They'll do as they are? Very well! Now, you see, George"--he takes a cloak from a corner and begins adjusting it about the trooper's neck--"I was mindful of your feelings when I come out, and brought this on purpose. There! Who's the wiser?"

Mr. Bucket adjusts them. "Are they comfortable? If not, say so, for I wish to make things as pleasant as is consistent with my duty. They'll do? Very well! Now, you see, George" - he takes a cloak from a corner and adjusts it about the trooper's neck - "I was mindful of your feelings when I come out, and brought this on purpose. There! Who's the wiser?"


"Only I," returns the trooper, "but as I know it, do me one more good turn and pull my hat over my eyes."

"Only I," returns the trooper. "Do me one more good turn and pull my hat over my eyes."


"Really, though! Do you mean it? Ain't it a pity? It looks so."


"I can't look chance men in the face with these things on," Mr. George hurriedly replies. "Do, for God's sake, pull my hat forward."


So strongly entreated, Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as steadily as usual, though with his head less erect, and Mr. Bucket steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.

Mr. Bucket complies, puts his own hat on, and conducts his prize into the streets, the trooper marching on as steadily as usual, and Mr. Bucket steering him with his elbow over the crossings and up the turnings.


As the winter wore itself away, Mr. Cheesacre, happy as he was amidst the sports of Norfolk, and prosperous as he might be with the augean spoils of Oileymead, fretted himself with an intense anxiety to bring to a close that affair which he had on his hands with the widow Greenow. There were two special dangers which disturbed him. She would give herself and all her money to that adventurer, Bellfield; or else she would spend her own money so fast before he got hold upon it, that the prize would be greatly damaged. "I'm ---- if she hasn't been and set up a carriage!" he said to himself one day, as standing on the pavement of Tombland, in Norwich, he saw Mrs. Greenow issue forth from the Close in a private brougham, accompanied by one of the Fairstairs girls. "She's been and set up her carriage as sure as my name's Cheesacre!"

As the winter passed, Mr. Cheesacre fretted anxiously about the widow Greenow. There were two dangers which disturbed him. She would give herself and all her money to Bellfield; or else she would spend her own money so fast before he got hold of it, that the prize would be greatly damaged.
"I'm --- if she hasn't set up a carriage!" he said to himself one day in Norwich, on seeing Mrs. Greenow in a private brougham, accompanied by one of the Fairstairs girls. "She's been and set up her carriage as sure as my name's Cheesacre!"


Whatever reason he might have to fear the former danger, we may declare that he had none whatever as to the latter. Mrs. Greenow knew what she was doing with her money as well as any lady in England. The private carriage was only a hired brougham taken by the month, and as to that boy in buttons whom she had lately established, why should she not keep a young servant, and call him a page, if it gave her any comfort to do so? If Mr. Cheesacre had also known that she had lent the Fairstairs family fifty pounds to help them through with some difficulty which Joe had encountered with the Norwich tradespeople, he would have been beside himself with dismay. He desired to obtain the prize unmutilated,--in all its fair proportions. Any such clippings he regarded as robberies against himself.

However, Mrs. Greenow knew what she was doing with her money as well as any lady in England. The private carriage was only hired by the month, and as to that boy in buttons, why should she not keep a young servant, and call him a page, if she wished?
If Mr. Cheesacre had also known that she had lent the Fairstairs family fifty pounds to help them through some difficulty, he would have been beside himself with dismay. He desired to obtain the prize unmutilated. Any such clippings he regarded as robberies against himself.


But he feared Bellfield more than he feared the brougham. That all is fair in love and war was no doubt, at this period, Captain Bellfield's maxim, and we can only trust that he found in it some consolation, or ease to his conscience, in regard to the monstrous lies which he told his friend. In war, no doubt, all stratagems are fair. The one general is quite justified in making the other believe that he is far to the right, when in truth he is turning his enemy's left flank. If successful, he will be put upon a pedestal for his clever deceit, and crowned with laurels because of his lie. If Bellfield could only be successful, and achieve for himself the mastery over those forty thousand pounds, the world would forgive him and place, on his brow also, some not uncomfortable crown. In the mean time, his stratagems were as deep and his lies as profound as those of any general.

But he feared Bellfield more. That all is fair in love and war was no doubt Captain Bellfield's maxim; at any rate he told some monstrous lies to his friend. In war, no doubt, all stratagems are fair. If Bellfield could only be successful, and achieve mastery over those forty thousand pounds, the world would forgive him. In the meantime, his stratagems were as deep and his lies as profound as those of any general.


It must not be supposed that Cheesacre ever believed him. In the first place, he knew that Bellfield was not a man to be believed in any way. Had he not been living on lies for the last ten years? But then a man may lie in such a way as to deceive, though no one believe him. Mr. Cheesacre was kept in an agony of doubt while Captain Bellfield occupied his lodgings in Norwich. He fee'd Jeannette liberally. He even fee'd Charlie Fairstairs,--Miss Fairstairs I mean,--with gloves, and chickens from Oileymead, so that he might know whether that kite fluttered about his dovecoat, and of what nature were the flutterings. He went even further than this, and fee'd the Captain himself,--binding him down not to flutter as value given in return for such fees. He attempted even to fee the widow,--cautioning her against the fluttering, as he tendered to her, on his knees, a brooch as big as a breast-plate. She waved aside the breast-plate, declaring that the mourning ring which contained poor Greenow's final grey lock of hair, was the last article from a jeweller's shop which should ever find a place about her person. At the same time she declared that Captain Bellfield was nothing to her; Mr. Cheesacre need have no fears in that quarter. But then, she added, neither was he to have any hope. Her affections were all buried under the cold sod. This was harassing. Nevertheless, though no absolute satisfaction was to be attained in the wooing of Mrs. Greenow, there was a pleasantness in the occupation which ought to have reconciled her suitors to their destiny. With most ladies, when a gentleman has been on his knees before one of them in the morning, with outspoken protestations of love, with clearly defined proffers of marriage, with a minute inventory of the offerer's worldly wealth,--down even to the "mahogany-furnitured" bed-chambers, as was the case with Mr. Cheesacre, and when all these overtures have been peremptorily declined,--a gentleman in such a case, I say, would generally feel some awkwardness in sitting down to tea with the lady at the close of such a performance. But with Mrs. Greenow there was no such awkwardness. After an hour's work of the nature above described she would play the hostess with a genial hospitality, that eased off all the annoyance of disappointment; and then at the end of the evening, she would accept a squeeze of the hand, a good, palpable, long-protracted squeeze, with that sort of "don't;--have done now," by which Irish young ladies allure their lovers. Mr. Cheesacre, on such occasions, would leave the Close, swearing that she should be his on the next market-day,--or at any rate, on the next Saturday. Then, on the Monday, tidings would reach him that Bellfield had passed all Sunday afternoon with his lady-love,--Bellfield, to whom he had lent five pounds on purpose that he might be enabled to spend that very Sunday with some officers of the Suffolk volunteers at Ipswich. And hearing this, he would walk out among those rich heaps, at the back of his farmyard, uttering deep curses against the falsehood of men and the fickleness of women.

It must not be supposed that Cheesacre ever believed him. In the first place, he knew that Bellfield was not a man to be believed. Had he not been living on lies for the last ten years? But Mr. Cheesacre was kept in an agony of doubt. He paid Jeannette liberally. He even paid Charlie Fairstairs with gloves, and chickens from Oileymead, so that he might know whether that hawk fluttered about his dovecote. He went further, and paid the Captain himself, making him promise not to flutter in return for money. He even attempted to pay the widow - cautioning her against the fluttering, as he offered her, on his knees, a brooch as big as a plate.
She waved the brooch aside, declaring that her mourning ring was the only jewellery she would ever wear. She also declared that Captain Bellfield was nothing to her; Mr. Cheesacre need have no fears. But, she added, neither was he to have any hope. Her affections were all buried under the cold earth.
This was harassing. Nevertheless, though they could get no satisfaction in wooing Mrs. Greenow, the pleasantness of the occupation ought to have reconciled her suitors to their destiny. When a gentleman has been on his knees before a lady, and has been peremptorily refused, he would generally feel some awkwardness in sitting down to tea with the lady afterwards. But with Mrs. Greenow there was no such awkwardness. She would play the hostess with a genial hospitality, and at the end of the evening she would accept a good long squeeze of the hand.
Mr. Cheesacre, on such occasions, would leave the Close swearing that she should be his on the next market-day. Then, on the Monday, news would reach him that Bellfield had passed all Sunday afternoon with his lady-love - Bellfield, to whom he had lent five pounds to spend that very Sunday with some officers at Ipswich.


Driven to despair, he at last resolved to ask Bellfield to come to Oileymead for a month. That drilling at Norwich, or the part of it which was supposed to be profitable, was wearing itself out. Funds were low with the Captain,--as he did not scruple to tell his friend Cheesacre, and he accepted the invitation. "I'll mount you with the harriers, old fellow," Cheesacre had said; "and give you a little shooting. Only I won't have you go out when I'm not with you." Bellfield agreed, Each of them understood the nature of the bargain; though Bellfield, I think, had somewhat the clearer understanding in the matter. He would not be so near the widow as he had been at Norwich, but he would not be less near than his kind host. And his host would no doubt watch him closely;--but then he also could watch his host. There was a railway station not two miles from Oileymead, and the journey thence into Norwich was one of half an hour. Mr. Cheesacre would doubtless be very jealous of such journeys, but with all his jealousy he could not prevent them. And then, in regard to this arrangement, Mr. Cheesacre paid the piper, whereas Captain Bellfield paid nothing. Would it not be sweet to him if he could carry off his friend's prize from under the very eaves of his friend's house?

Driven to despair, he at last resolved to ask Bellfield to come to Oileymead for a month. Funds were low with the Captain, and he accepted the invitation.
"I'll hire you a horse, old fellow," Cheesacre had said; "and give you a little shooting. Only I won't have you go out when I'm not with you."
Bellfield agreed. Each of them understood the nature of the bargain; though Bellfield, I think, understood it better. He would not be so near the widow as he had been at Norwich, but he would no further away than his kind host was. His host would no doubt watch him closely; but he could also watch his host. There was a railway station two miles from Oileymead, and the journey into Norwich was only half an hour. Mr. Cheesacre could not prevent such journeys. And then he would pay for everything, while Captain Bellfield paid nothing. Would it not be sweet if he could carry off his friend's prize from under his friend's roof?


And Mrs. Greenow also understood the arrangement. "Going to Oileymead; are you?" she said when Captain Bellfield came to tell her of his departure. Charlie Fairstairs was with her, so that the Captain could not utilize the moment in any special way. "It's quite delightful," continued the widow, "to see how fond you two gentlemen are of each other."

And Mrs. Greenow also understood the arrangement. "Going to Oileymead, are you?" she said when Captain Bellfield came to tell her of his departure. Charlie Fairstairs was with her, so that the Captain could not use the moment in any special way. "It's quite delightful," continued the widow, "to see how fond you two gentlemen are of each other."


"I think gentlemen always like to go best to gentlemen's houses where there are no ladies," said Charlie Fairstairs, whose career in life had not as yet been satisfactory to her.


"As for that," said Bellfield, "I wish with all my heart that dear old Cheesy would get a wife. He wants a wife badly, if ever a man did, with all that house full of blankets and crockery. Why don't you set your cap at him, Miss Fairstairs?"

"I wish with all my heart that dear old Cheesy would get a wife," said Bellfield. "He needs a wife badly, with that house full of blankets and crockery. Why don't you set your cap at him, Miss Fairstairs?"


"What;--at a farmer!" said Charlie who was particularly anxious that her dear friend, Mrs. Greenow, should not marry Mr. Cheesacre, and who weakly thought to belittle him accordingly.

"What; at a farmer!" said Charlie, who was particularly anxious that her dear friend Mrs. Greenow should not marry Mr. Cheesacre.


"Give him my kind love," said Mrs. Greenow, thereby resenting the impotent interference. "And look here, Captain Bellfield, suppose you both dine with me next Saturday. He always comes in on Saturday, and you might as well come too."

"Give him my kind love," said Mrs. Greenow. "And, Captain Bellfield, suppose you both dine with me next Saturday. He always comes on Saturday, and you might as well come too."


Captain Bellfield declared that he would only be too happy.


"And Charlie shall come to set her cap at Mr. Cheesacre," said the widow, turning a soft and gracious eye on the Captain.

"And Charlie shall come to set her cap at Mr. Cheesacre," said the widow.


"I shall be happy to come,"--said Charlie, quite delighted; "but not with that object. Mr. Cheesacre is very respectable, I'm sure." Charlie's mother had been the daughter of a small squire who had let his land to tenants, and she was, therefore, justified by circumstances in looking down upon a farmer.

"I shall be happy to come," said Charlie, quite delighted; "but not with that object, though Mr. Cheesacre is very respectable, I'm sure."


The matter was so settled,--pending the consent of Mr. Cheesacre; and Bellfield went out to Oileymead. He knew the ways of the house, and was not surprised to find himself left alone till after dusk; nor was he much surprised when he learned that he was not put into one of the mahogany-furnitured chambers, but into a back room looking over the farm-yard in which there was no fire-place. The Captain had already endured some of the evils of poverty, and could have put up with this easily had nothing been said about it. As it was, Cheesacre brought the matter forward, and apologized, and made the thing difficult.

So Bellfield went to Oileymead. He was not much surprised to find himself put not into one of the mahogany-furnitured chambers, but into a back room overlooking the farm-yard, with no fire-place.


"You see, old fellow," he said, "there are the rooms, and of course they're empty. But it's such a bore hauling out all the things and putting up the curtains. You'll be very snug where you are."


"I shall do very well," said Bellfield rather sulkily.


"Of course you'll do very well. It's the warmest room in the house in one way." He did not say in what way. Perhaps the near neighbourhood of the stables may have had a warming effect.


Bellfield did not like it; but what is a poor man to do under such circumstances? So he went up-stairs and washed his hands before dinner in the room without a fire-place, flattering himself that he would yet be even with his friend Cheesacre.

Bellfield did not like it; but what is a poor man to do under such circumstances? So he washed his hands before dinner in the room without a fire-place, flattering himself that he would yet be even with his friend Cheesacre.


They dined together not in the best humour, and after dinner they sat down to enjoy themselves with pipes and brandy and water. Bellfield, having a taste for everything that was expensive, would have preferred cigars; but his friend put none upon the table. Mr. Cheesacre, though he could spend his money liberally when occasion required such spending, knew well the value of domestic economy. He wasn't going to put himself out, as he called it, for Bellfield! What was good enough for himself was good enough for Bellfield. "A beggar, you know; just a regular beggar!" as he was betrayed into saying to Mrs. Greenow on some occasion just at this period. "Poor fellow! He only wants money to make him almost perfect," Mrs. Greenow had answered;--and Mr. Cheesacre had felt that he had made a mistake.

They dined together not in the best humour, and after dinner they sat down to enjoy themselves with pipes and brandy and water. Bellfield would have preferred cigars; but they were more expensive, and his friend put none upon the table. Mr. Cheesacre wasn't going to put himself out for Bellfield!


Both the men became talkative, if not good-humoured, under the effects of the brandy and water, and the Captain then communicated Mrs. Greenow's invitation to Mr. Cheesacre. He had had his doubts as to the propriety of doing so,--thinking that perhaps it might be to his advantage to forget the message. But he reflected that he was at any rate a match for Cheesacre when they were present together, and finally came to the conclusion that the message should be delivered. "I had to go and just wish her goodbye you know," he said apologetically, as he finished his little speech.

Both the men became talkative under the effects of the brandy, and the Captain then gave Mrs. Greenow's invitation to Mr. Cheesacre. He had wondered whether to forget the message, but decided that it should be delivered.
"I had to go and just wish her goodbye, you know," he said apologetically.


"I don't see that at all," said Cheesacre.


"Why, my dear fellow, how foolishly jealous you are. If I were to be downright uncivil to her, as you would have me be, it would only call attention to the thing."

"Why, my dear fellow, how foolishly jealous you are. If I were to be downright uncivil to her, it would only call attention to the thing."


"I'm not a bit jealous. A man who sits upon his own ground as I do hasn't any occasion to be jealous."


"I don't know what your own ground has to do with it,--but we'll let that pass."

"I don't know what your own ground has to do with it."


"I think it has a great deal to do with it. If a man does intend to marry he ought to have things comfortable about him; unless he wants to live on his wife, which I look upon as about the meanest thing a man can do. By George, I'd sooner break stones than that."

"It has a great deal to do with it. If a man intends to marry he ought to have things comfortable about him; unless he wants to live on his wife, which is about the meanest thing a man can do. By George, I'd sooner break stones than that."


This was hard for any captain to bear,--even for Captain Bellfield; but he did bear it,--looking forward to revenge.

This was hard for any captain to bear; but Captain Bellfield did bear it - looking forward to revenge.


"There's no pleasing you, I know," said he. "But there's the fact. I went to say goodbye to her, and she asked me to give you that message. Shall we go or not?"

"There's no pleasing you, I know," said he. "But I went to say goodbye to her, and she asked me to give you that message. Shall we go or not?"


Cheesacre sat for some time silent, blowing out huge clouds of smoke while he meditated a little plan. "I'll tell you what it is, Bellfield," he said at last. "She's nothing to you, and if you won't mind it, I'll go. Mrs. Jones shall get you anything you like for dinner,--and,--and--I'll stand you a bottle of the '34 port!"

Cheesacre sat for some time silent and meditating a little plan. "I'll tell you what, Bellfield," he said at last. "She's nothing to you, and if you won't mind staying here, I'll go. Mrs. Jones shall get you anything you like for dinner - and - and I'll stand you a bottle of the '34 port!"


But Captain Bellfield was not going to put up with this. He had not sold himself altogether to work Mr. Cheesacre's will. "No, old fellow," said he; "that cock won't fight. She has asked me to dine with her on Saturday, and I mean to go. I don't intend that she shall think that I'm afraid of her,--or of you either."

But Captain Bellfield was not going to put up with this. "No, old fellow. She has asked me to dine with her on Saturday, and I mean to go."


"No, I don't," said the Captain stoutly.


"I wish you'd pay me some of that money you owe me," said Cheesacre.


"So I will,--when I've married the widow. Ha,--ha,--ha."

"So I will - when I've married the widow."


Cheesacre longed to turn him out of the house. Words to bid him go, were, so to say, upon his tongue. But the man would only have taken himself to Norwich, and would have gone without any embargo upon his suit; all their treaties would then be at an end. "She knows a trick worth two of that," said Cheesacre at last.

Cheesacre longed to turn him out of the house. But the man would only have taken himself to Norwich, to woo the widow; and all their treaties would be at an end.


"I dare say she does; and if so, why shouldn't I go and dine with her next Saturday?"

"Why shouldn't I go and dine with her next Saturday?"


"I'll tell you why,--because you're in my way. The deuce is in it if I haven't made the whole thing clear enough. I've told you all my plans because I thought you were my friend, and I've paid you well to help me, too; and yet it seems to me you'd do anything in your power to throw me over,--only you can't."

asked Bellfield.
"Because you're in my way. I've made it clear enough. I've told you all my plans because I thought you were my friend, and I've paid you well to help me, too; and yet you do all you can to throw me over - only you can't."


"What an ass you are," said the Captain after a pause; "just you listen to me. That scraggy young woman, Charlie Fairstairs, is to be there of course."

"What an ass you are," said the Captain. "Just you listen to me. That scraggy young woman, Charlie Fairstairs, is to be there.


"I tell you that I do know. She was present when the whole thing was arranged, and I heard her asked, and heard her say that she would come;--and for the matter of that I heard her declare that she wouldn't set her cap at you, because you're a farmer."

She was present when the whole thing was arranged, and I heard her asked, and heard her say that she would come - and she declared that she wouldn't set her cap at you, because you're a farmer."


"Upon my word she's kind. Upon my word she is," said Cheesacre, getting very angry and very red. "Charlie Fairstairs, indeed! I wouldn't pick her out of a gutter with a pair of tongs. She ain't good enough for my bailiff, let alone me."

"Upon my word she's kind," said Cheesacre, getting very angry and very red. "Charlie Fairstairs, indeed! I wouldn't pick her out of a gutter with a pair of tongs."


"But somebody must take her in hand on Saturday, if you're to do any good," said the crafty Bellfield.

"But somebody must take her in hand on Saturday, if you're to do any good with the widow," said the crafty Bellfield.


"What the deuce does she have that nasty creature there for?" said Cheesacre, who thought it very hard that everything should not be arranged exactly as he would desire.

"What the deuce does she have that nasty creature there for?" said Cheesacre.


"She wants a companion, of course. You can get rid of Charlie, you know, when you make her Mrs. Cheesacre."

"As a companion, of course. You can get rid of Charlie, you know, when you make her Mrs. Cheesacre."


"Get rid of her! You don't suppose she'll ever put her foot in this house. Not if I know it. I've detested that woman for the last ten years." Cheesacre could forgive no word of slight respecting his social position, and the idea of Miss Fairstairs having pretended to look down upon him, galled him to the quick.

"Get rid of her! She'll never set foot in this house. I've detested that woman for the last ten years." Cheesacre could forgive no slighting of his social position, and the idea of Miss Fairstairs looking down upon him galled him to the quick.


"You'll have to dine with her at any rate," said Bellfield, "and I always think that four are better company than three on such occasions."

"You'll have to dine with her at any rate," said Bellfield, "and four are better company than three on such occasions."


Mr. Cheesacre grunted an unwilling assent, and after this it was looked upon as an arranged thing that they two should go into Norwich on the Saturday together, and that they should both dine with the widow. Indeed, Mrs. Greenow got two notes, one from each of them, accepting the invitation. Cheesacre wrote in the singular number, altogether ignoring Captain Bellfield, as he might have ignored his footman had he intended to take one. The captain condescended to use the plural pronoun. "We shall be so happy to come," said he. "Dear old Cheesy is out of his little wits with delight," he added, "and has already begun to polish off the effects of the farmyard."

Mr. Cheesacre grunted an unwilling assent; and it was arranged that they should go together, and both dine with the widow. Indeed, Mrs. Greenow got two notes, one from each of them. Cheesacre wrote his acceptance, altogether ignoring Captain Bellfield.
The captain wrote, "We shall be so happy to come. Dear old Cheesy is out of his little wits with delight, and has already begun to polish off the effects of the farmyard."


"Effects of the farmyard," said Mrs. Greenow aloud, in Jeannette's hearing, when she received the note. "It would be well for Captain Bellfield if he had a few such effects himself."

"Effects of the farmyard," read Mrs. Greenow aloud to Jeannette. "It would be well for Captain Bellfield if he had a few such effects himself."


"You can give him enough, ma'am," said Jeannette, "to make him a better man than Mr. Cheesacre any day. And for a gentleman--of course I say nothing, but if I was a lady, I know which should be the man for me."

"You can give him enough, ma'am," said Jeannette, "to make him a better man than Mr. Cheesacre any day. And for a gentleman - of course I say nothing, but if I was a lady, I know which should be the man for me."


Of all sights in the world there is, I think, none more beautiful than that of a pack of fox-hounds seated, on a winter morning, round the huntsman, if the place of meeting has been chosen with anything of artistic skill. It should be in a grassy field, and the field should be small. It should not be absolutely away from all buildings, and the hedgerows should not have been clipped and pared, and made straight with reference to modern agricultural economy. There should be trees near, and the ground should be a little uneven, so as to mark some certain small space as the exact spot where the dogs and servants of the hunt should congregate.

Of all sights in the world there is, I think, none more beautiful than that of a pack of fox-hounds round the huntsman on a winter morning.


There are well-known grand meets in England, in the parks of noblemen, before their houses, or even on what are called their lawns; but these magnificent affairs have but little of the beauty of which I speak. Such assemblies are too grand and too ornate, and, moreover, much too far removed from true sporting proprieties. At them, equipages are shining, and ladies' dresses are gorgeous, and crowds of tradesmen from the neighbouring town have come there to look at the grand folk. To my eye there is nothing beautiful in that. The meet I speak of is arranged with a view to sport, but the accident of the locality may make it the prettiest thing in the world.

There are some well-known hunting meets in the parks of noblemen, but these are too grand and ornate, and have more to do with fashion than with sport. The meeting I am thinking of is arranged for sport, but may happen to be the prettiest thing in the world.


Such, in a special degree, was the case at Edgehill. At Edgehill the whole village consisted of three or four cottages; but there was a small old church, with an old grey tower, and a narrow, green, almost dark, churchyard, surrounded by elm-trees. The road from Roebury to the meet passed by the church stile, and turning just beyond it came upon the gate which led into the little field in which the hounds felt themselves as much at home as in their kennels. There might be six or seven acres in the field, which was long and narrow, so that the huntsman had space to walk leisurely up and down with the pack clustering round him, when he considered that longer sitting might chill them. The church tower was close at hand, visible through the trees, and the field itself was green and soft, though never splashing with mud or heavy with holes.

Such was the case at Edgehill. The village consisted of three or four cottages, a small church with a grey tower, and a narrow green churchyard surrounded by elm-trees. The field by the church where the hounds gathered was green and soft, never splashing with mud or heavy with holes.


Edgehill was a favourite meet in that country, partly because foxes were very abundant in the great wood adjacent, partly because the whole country around is grass-land, and partly, no doubt, from the sporting propensities of the neighbouring population. As regards my own taste, I do not know that I do like beginning a day with a great wood,--and if not beginning it, certainly not ending it. It is hard to come upon the cream of hunting, as it is upon the cream of any other delight. Who can always drink Lafitte of the finest, can always talk to a woman who is both beautiful and witty, or can always find the right spirit in the poetry he reads? A man has usually to work through much mud before he gets his nugget. It is so certainly in hunting, and a big wood too frequently afflicts the sportsman, as the mud does the miner. The small gorse cover is the happy, much-envied bit of ground in which the gold is sure to show itself readily. But without the woods the gorse would not hold the foxes, and without the mud the gold would not have found its resting-place.

Edgehill was a favourite meet in that country, partly because foxes were very abundant in the great wood nearby.


But, as I have said, Edgehill was a popular meet, and, as regarded the meet itself, was eminently picturesque. On the present occasion the little field was full of horsemen, moving about slowly, chatting together, smoking cigars, getting off from their hacks and mounting their hunters, giving orders to their servants, and preparing for the day. There were old country gentlemen there, greeting each other from far sides of the county; sporting farmers who love to find themselves alongside their landlords, and to feel that the pleasures of the country are common to both; men down from town, like our friends of the Roebury club, who made hunting their chosen pleasure, and who formed, in number, perhaps the largest portion of the field; officers from garrisons round about; a cloud of servants, and a few nondescript stragglers who had picked up horses, hither and thither, round the country. Outside the gate on the road were drawn up a variety of vehicles, open carriages, dog-carts, gigs, and waggonettes, in some few of which were seated ladies who had come over to see the meet. But Edgehill was, essentially, not a ladies' meet. The distances to it were long, and the rides in Cranby Wood--the big wood--were not adapted for wheels. There were one or two ladies on horseback, as is always the case; but Edgehill was not a place popular, even with hunting ladies. One carriage, that of the old master of the hounds, had entered the sacred precincts of the field, and from this the old baronet was just descending, as Maxwell, Calder Jones, and Vavasor rode into the field.

On the present occasion the field was full of horsemen, chatting, smoking cigars, getting off their hacks and mounting their hunters, and giving orders to their servants. There were old country gentlemen, greeting each other from far sides of the county; sporting farmers who love to find themselves alongside their landlords; men come from town to hunt, like our friends of the Roebury club; officers from garrisons round about; a cloud of servants, and a few nondescript stragglers.
Outside the gate on the road were drawn up a variety of open carriages and waggonettes, in some of which were seated ladies who had come to see the meet. There were one or two ladies on horseback; but Edgehill was not popular with hunting ladies. From one carriage, the master of the hounds was descending, just as Maxwell, Calder Jones, and Vavasor rode into the field.


"I hope I see you well, Sir William," said Maxwell, greeting the master. Calder Jones also made his little speech, and so did Vavasor.


"Humph--well, yes, I'm pretty well, thank'ee. Just move on, will you? My mare can't stir here." Then some one else spoke to him, and he only grunted in answer. Having slowly been assisted up on to his horse,--for he was over seventy years of age,--he trotted off to the hounds, while all the farmers round him touched their hats to him. But his mind was laden with affairs of import, and he noticed no one. In a whispered voice he gave his instructions to his huntsman, who said, "Yes, Sir William," "No, Sir William," "No doubt, Sir William." One long-eared, long-legged fellow, in a hunting-cap and scarlet coat, hung listening by, anxious to catch something of the orders for the morning. "Who the devil's that fellow, that's all breeches and boots?" said Sir William aloud to some one near him, as the huntsman moved off with the hounds. Sir William knew the man well enough, but was minded to punish him for his discourtesy. "Where shall we find first, Sir William?" said Calder Jones, in a voice that was really very humble. "How the mischief am I to know where the foxes are?" said Sir William, with an oath; and Calder Jones retired unhappy, and for the moment altogether silenced.

"Humph - yes, I'm pretty well, thank'ee." Having slowly been assisted up on to his horse - for he was over seventy - he trotted off to the hounds, while all the farmers touched their hats to him. He whispered his instructions to his huntsman, who said, "Yes, Sir William," "No, Sir William," "No doubt, Sir William."
"Where shall we find first, Sir William?" said Calder Jones humbly.
"How the mischief am I to know where the foxes are?" said Sir William, with an oath; and Calder Jones retired unhappy and silenced.


And yet Sir William was the most popular man in the county, and no more courteous gentleman ever sat at the bottom of his own table. A mild man he was, too, when out of his saddle, and one by no means disposed to assume special supremacy. But a master of hounds, if he have long held the country,--and Sir William had held his for more than thirty years,--obtains a power which that of no other potentate can equal. He may say and do what he pleases, and his tyranny is always respected. No conspiracy against him has a chance of success; no sedition will meet with sympathy;--that is, if he be successful in showing sport. If a man be sworn at, abused, and put down without cause, let him bear it and think that he has been a victim for the public good. And let him never be angry with the master. That rough tongue is the necessity of the master's position. They used to say that no captain could manage a ship without swearing at his men. But what are the captain's troubles in comparison with those of the master of hounds? The captain's men are under discipline, and can be locked up, flogged, or have their grog stopped. The master of hounds cannot stop the grog of any offender, and he can only stop the tongue, or horse, of such an one by very sharp words.

And yet Sir William was the most popular man in the county; a mild, courteous gentleman when out of his saddle. But a master of hounds of long standing obtains an unequalled power. He may say and do what he pleases, and his tyranny is always respected.


"Well, Pollock, when did you come?" said Maxwell.


"By George," said the literary gentleman, "just down from London by the 8.30 from Euston Square, and got over here from Winslow in a trap, with two fellows I never saw in my life before. We came tandem in a fly, and did the nineteen miles in an hour."

"By George," said the literary gentleman, "just down from London by the 8.30 from Euston, and got over here from Winslow in a trap.


"Come, Athenian, draw it mild," said Maxwell.


"We did, indeed. I wonder whether they'll pay me their share of the fly. I had to leave Onslow Crescent at a quarter before eight, and I did three hours' work before I started."


"Then you did it by candle-light," said Grindley.


"Of course I did; and why shouldn't I? Do you suppose no one can work by candle-light except a lawyer? I suppose you fellows were playing whist, and drinking hard. I'm uncommon glad I wasn't with you, for I shall be able to ride."

"Of course I did. Why shouldn't I? I suppose you fellows were playing whist, and drinking. I'm uncommon glad I wasn't with you, for I shall be able to ride."


"I bet you a pound," said Jones, "if there's a run, I see more of it than you."


"I'll take that bet with Jones," said Grindley, "and Vavasor shall be the judge."


"Gentlemen, the hounds can't get out, if you will stop up the gate," said Sir William. Then the pack passed through, and they all trotted on for four miles, to Cranby Wood.

"Gentlemen, the hounds can't get out, if you stand in the gate," said Sir William.
Then the pack of hounds passed through, and they all trotted on for four miles, to Cranby Wood.


Vavasor, as he rode on to the wood, was alone, or speaking, from time to time, a few words to his servant. "I'll ride the chestnut mare in the wood," he said, "and do you keep near me."

Vavasor rode alone, or speaking occasional words to his servant.
"I'll ride the chestnut mare in the wood," he said, "and you stay near me


"I bean't to be galloping up and down them rides, I suppose," said Bat, almost contemptuously.


"I shan't gallop up and down the rides, myself; but do you mark me, to know where I am, so that I can change if a fox should go away."

, so that I can change horses if a fox should go away."


"You'll be here all day, sir. That's my belief."


"If so, I won't ride the brown horse at all. But do you take care to let me have him if there's a chance. Do you understand?"

"If so, I won't ride the brown horse at all. But let me have him if there's a chance. Do you understand?"


"Oh, yes, I understand, sir. There ain't no difficulty in my understanding;--only I don't think, sir, you'll ever get a fox out of that wood to-day. Why, it stands to reason. The wind's from the north-east."

"Oh, yes, sir. Only I don't think you'll ever get a fox out of that wood today. The wind's from the north-east."


Cranby Wood is very large,--there being, in truth, two or three woods together. It was nearly twelve before they found; and then for an hour there was great excitement among the men, who rode up and down the rides as the hounds drove the fox from one end to another of the enclosure. Once or twice the poor animal did try to go away, and then there was great hallooing, galloping, and jumping over unnecessary fences; but he was headed back again, or changed his mind, not liking the north-east wind of which Bat Smithers had predicted such bad things. After one the crowd of men became rather more indifferent, and clustered together in broad spots, eating their lunch, smoking cigars, and chaffing each other. It was singular to observe the amazing quantity of ham sandwiches and of sherry that had been carried into Cranby Wood on that day. Grooms appeared to have been laden with cases, and men were as well armed with flasks at their saddle-bows as they used to be with pistols. Maxwell and Pollock formed the centre of one of these crowds, and chaffed each other with the utmost industry, till, tired of having inflicted no wounds, they turned upon Grindley and drove him out of the circle. "You'll make that man cut his throat, if you go on at that," said Pollock. "Shall I?" said Maxwell. "Then I'll certainly stick to him for the sake of humanity in general." During all this time Vavasor sat apart, quite alone, and Bat Smithers grimly kept his place, about three hundred yards from him.

Cranby Wood is very large, and it was nearly twelve before they found a fox; and then for an hour there was great excitement as the hounds drove the fox from one end to another of the enclosure. Once or twice the poor animal did try to get away, and then there was great hallooing, galloping, and jumping over unnecessary fences; but he was headed back again.
After one o'clock the crowd of men became more indifferent, and clustered together eating their lunch, smoking cigars, and chaffing each other. An amazing quantity of ham sandwiches and sherry had been carried into Cranby Wood that day. Maxwell and Pollock formed the centre of one of these crowds, and chaffed and made fun of each other with the utmost industry, and then turned upon Grindley. Meanwhile Vavasor sat apart, quite alone, and Bat Smithers grimly stood about three hundred yards away.


"We shan't do any good to-day," said Grindley, coming up to Vavasor.


"That old fellow has got to be so stupid, he doesn't know what he's about," said Grindley, meaning Sir William.


"How can he make the fox break?" said Vavasor; and as his voice was by no means encouraging Grindley rode away.


Lunch and cigars lasted till two, during which hour the hounds, the huntsmen, the whips, and old Sir William were hard at work, as also were some few others who persistently followed every chance of the game. From that till three there were two or three flashes in the pan, and false reports as to foxes which had gone away, which first set men galloping, and then made them very angry. After three, men began to say naughty things, to abuse Cranby Wood, to wish violently that they had remained at home or gone elsewhere, and to speak irreverently of their ancient master. "It's the cussidest place in all creation," said Maxwell. "I often said I'd not come here any more, and now I say it again."

Lunch and cigars lasted till two. From then till three there were two or three false reports of foxes which had gone away, which first set men galloping, and then made them very angry. After three, men began to abuse Cranby Wood and to wish that they had stayed at home.
"It's the cussidest place in all creation," said Maxwell. "I won't come here again."


"And yet you'll be here the next meet," said Grindley, who had sneaked back to his old companions in weariness of spirit.

"You'll be here the next meet," said Grindley.


"Grindems, you know a sight too much," said Maxwell; "you do indeed. An ordinary fellow has no chance with you."

"Grindems, you know a sight too much," said Maxwell; "you do indeed."


Grindley was again going to catch it, but was on this time saved by the appearance of the huntsman, who came galloping up one of the rides, with a lot of the hounds at his heels.

Just then the huntsman came galloping up, with several hounds at his heels.


"He isn't away, Tom, surely?" said Maxwell.


"He's out of the wood somewheres," said Tom;--and off they all went. Vavasor changed his horse, getting on to the brown one, and giving up his chestnut mare to Bat Smithers, who suggested that he might as well go home to Roebury now. Vavasor gave him no answer, but, trotting on to the point where the rides met, stopped a moment and listened carefully. Then he took a path diverging away from that by which the huntsmen and the crowd of horsemen had gone, and made the best of his way through the wood. At the end of this he came upon Sir William, who, with no one near him but his servant, was standing in the pathway of a little hunting-gate.

"He's out of the wood somewheres," said Tom - and off they all went. Vavasor changed his horse, getting on to the brown one, and giving up his chestnut mare to Bat Smithers, who suggested that he might as well go home to Roebury now.
Vavasor gave him no answer, but stopped a moment and listened carefully. Then he took a path diverging away from that by which the huntsmen and the crowd of horsemen had gone, and made his way through the wood. At the end of this path he came upon Sir William, with no one near him but his servant, standing by a little hunting-gate.


"Hold hard," said Sir William. "The hounds are not out of the wood yet."


"What's the good of that if we can't get the hounds out?--Yes, he's away. He passed out where I'm standing." And then he began to blow his horn lustily, and by degrees other men and a few hounds came down the ride. Then Tom, with his horse almost blown, made his appearance outside the wood, and soon there came a rush of men, nearly on the top of one another, pushing on, not knowing whither, but keenly alive to the fact that the fox had at last consented to move his quarters.

"What's the good of that if we can't get the hounds out? Yes, he's away. He came out here." Then he began to blow his horn, and other men and a few hounds came down the ride. Soon there came Tom the huntsman and after him a rush of men, nearly on top of one another.


Tom touched his hat, and looked at his master, inquiringly. "He's gone for Claydon's," said the master. "Try them up that hedgerow." Tom did try them up the hedgerow, and in half a minute the hounds came upon the scent. Then you might see men settling their hats on their heads, and feeling their feet in the stirrups. The moment for which they had so long waited had come, and yet there were many who would now have preferred that the fox should be headed back into cover. Some had but little confidence in their half-blown horses;--with many the waiting, though so abused and anathematized, was in truth more to their taste than the run itself;--with others the excitement had gone by, and a gallop over a field or two was necessary before it would be restored. With most men at such a moment there is a little nervousness, some fear of making a bad start, a dread lest others should have more of the success of the hunt than falls to them. But there was a great rush and a mighty bustle as the hounds made out their game, and Sir William felt himself called upon to use the rough side of his tongue to more than one delinquent.

Tom touched his hat, and looked at his master inquiringly.
"He's gone for Claydon's," said the master. "Try them up that hedgerow."
Tom did try them up the hedgerow, and in half a minute the hounds found the scent. Men settled their hats on their heads, and their feet in the stirrups. The moment for which they had so long waited had come, and yet there were many who would now have preferred that the fox should be headed back into cover. Some had little confidence in their horses; and others needed a gallop over a field or two before their enthusiasm would be restored. Most men at such a moment are a little nervous. But there was a great rush and a mighty bustle as the hounds scented their game.


And then certain sly old stagers might be seen turning off to the left, instead of following the course of the game as indicated by the hounds. They were men who had felt the air as they came out, and knew that the fox must soon run down wind, whatever he might do for the first half mile or so,--men who knew also which was the shortest way to Claydon's by the road. Ah, the satisfaction that there is when these men are thrown out, and their dead knowledge proved to be of no avail! If a fox will only run straight, heading from the cover on his real line, these very sagacious gentlemen seldom come to much honour and glory.

And then certain sly old stagers might be seen turning off to the left, instead of following the hounds. They were men who had felt the air, and knew that the fox must soon run downwind, whatever he might do for the first half mile or so - men who knew also knew the shortest way to Claydon's by the road.


In the present instance the beast seemed determined to go straight enough, for the hounds ran the scent along three or four hedgerows in a line. He had managed to get for himself full ten minutes' start, and had been able to leave the cover and all his enemies well behind him before he bethought himself as to his best way to his purposed destination. And here, from field to field, there were little hunting-gates at which men crowded lustily, poking and shoving each other's horses, and hating each other with a bitterness of hatred which is, I think, known nowhere else. No hunting man ever wants to jump if he can help it, and the hedges near the gate were not alluring. A few there were who made lines for themselves, taking the next field to the right, or scrambling through the corners of the fences while the rush was going on at the gates; and among these was George Vavasor. He never rode in a crowd, always keeping himself somewhat away from men as well as hounds. He would often be thrown out, and then men would hear no more of him for that day. On such occasions he did not show himself, as other men do, twenty minutes after the fox had been killed or run to ground,--but betook himself home by himself, going through the byeways and lanes, thus leaving no report of his failure to be spoken of by his compeers.

At present the fox seemed determined to go straight, for the hounds ran the scent along three or four hedgerows in a line. He had managed to get full ten minutes' start, and had left his enemies well behind him. And here, from field to field, there were little hunting-gates at which men crowded, poking and shoving each other's horses, and hating each bitterly. No hunting man ever wants to jump if he can help it, and the hedges near the gate were not alluring.
There were a few who took their own route through an adjoining field, or scrambled through the corners of the fences; and among these was George Vavasor. He never rode in a crowd. If he lost the trail he would go home by himself, leaving no report of his failure to be spoken of by his companions.


As long as the line of gates lasted, the crowd continued as thick as ever, and the best man was he whose horse could shove the hardest. After passing some four or five fields in this way they came out upon a road, and, the scent holding strong, the dogs crossed it without any demurring. Then came doubt into the minds of men, many of whom, before they would venture away from their position on the lane, narrowly watched the leading hounds to see whether there was indication of a turn to the one side or the other. Sir William, whose seventy odd years excused him, turned sharp to the left, knowing that he could make Claydon's that way; and very many were the submissive horsemen who followed him; a few took the road to the right, having in their minds some little game of their own. The hardest riders there had already crossed from the road into the country, and were going well to the hounds, ignorant, some of them, of the brook before them, and others unheeding. Foremost among these was Burgo Fitzgerald,--Burgo Fitzgerald, whom no man had ever known to crane at a fence, or to hug a road, or to spare his own neck or his horse's. And yet poor Burgo seldom finished well,--coming to repeated grief in this matter of his hunting, as he did so constantly in other matters of his life.

After crossing some four or five fields in this way they came out upon a road, and the dogs crossed it without hesitation. Many men narrowly watched the leading hounds to see whether they showed signs of turning to one side or the other. Sir William turned sharp to the left, knowing that he could reach Claydon's that way; and very many horsemen followed him. But a few took the road to the right, having in their minds some little game of their own.
The fastest riders had already crossed the road into the country, close behind the hounds, some of them ignorant of the brook before them. Foremost among these was Burgo Fitzgerald, who never spared his own neck or his horse's. Poor Burgo seldom finished well; he came repeatedly to grief in his hunting, as he did so constantly in other matters of his life.


But almost neck and neck with Burgo was Pollock, the sporting literary gentleman. Pollock had but two horses to his stud, and was never known to give much money for them;--and he weighed without his boots, fifteen stones! No one ever knew how Pollock did it;--more especially as all the world declared that he was as ignorant of hunting as any tailor. He could ride, or when he couldn't ride he could tumble,--men said that of him,--and he would ride as long as the beast under him could go. But few knew the sad misfortunes which poor Pollock sometimes encountered;--the muddy ditches in which he was left; the despair with which he would stand by his unfortunate horse when the poor brute could no longer move across some deep-ploughed field; the miles that he would walk at night beside a tired animal, as he made his way slowly back to Roebury!

But almost neck and neck with Burgo was Pollock, the sporting literary gentleman. Pollock had only two cheap horses - and he weighed fifteen stones barefoot! No one ever knew how Pollock did it; but he would ride as long as the beast under him could go.


Then came Tom the huntsman, with Calder Jones close to him, and Grindley intent on winning his sovereign. Vavasor had also crossed the road somewhat to the left, carrying with him one or two who knew that he was a safe man to follow. Maxwell had been ignominiously turned by the hedge, which, together with its ditch, formed a fence such as all men do not love at the beginning of a run. He had turned from it, acknowledging the cause. "By George!" said he, "that's too big for me yet awhile; and there's no end of a river at the bottom." So he had followed the master down the road.

Then came Tom the huntsman, with Calder Jones close to him, and Grindley intent on winning his sovereign. Vavasor had also crossed the road somewhat to the left, along with one or two who knew that he was a safe man to follow. Maxwell had been turned by the hedge.
"By George!" said he, "that's too big for me; and there's no end of a river at the bottom." So he had followed the master down the road.


All those whom we have named managed to get over the brook, Pollock's horse barely contriving to get up his hind legs from the broken edge of the bank. Some nags refused it, and their riders thus lost all their chance of sport for that day. Such is the lot of men who hunt. A man pays five or six pounds for his day's amusement, and it is ten to one that the occurrences of the day disgust rather than gratify him! One or two got in, and scrambled out on the other side, but Tufto Pearlings, the Manchester man from Friday Street, stuck in the mud at the bottom, and could not get his mare out till seven men had come with ropes to help him. "Where the devil is my fellow?" Pearlings asked of the countrymen; but the countrymen could not tell him that "his fellow" with his second horse was riding the hunt with great satisfaction to himself.

All those whom we have named managed to get over the brook. Some horses refused it, and their riders thus lost all their chance of sport for that day.


George Vavasor found that his horse went with him uncommonly well, taking his fences almost in the stride of his gallop, and giving unmistakeable signs of good condition. "I wonder what it is that's amiss with him," said George to himself, resolving, however, that he would sell him that day if he got an opportunity. Straight went the line of the fox, up from the brook, and Tom began to say that his master had been wrong about Claydon's.

George Vavasor found that his horse went uncommonly well, taking his fences almost in the stride of his gallop.
"I wonder what it is that's amiss with him," said George to himself, resolving, however, that he would sell him that day if he got a chance.


"Where are we now?" said Burgo, as four or five of them dashed through the open gate of a farmyard.


"This is Bulby's farm," said Tom, "and we're going right away for Elmham Wood."

"This is Bulby's farm," said Tom, "and we're going for Elmham Wood."


"Elmham Wood be d----," said a stout farmer, who had come as far as that with them. "You won't see Elmham Wood to-day."

"Elmham Wood be d----," said a stout farmer. "You won't see Elmham Wood today."


"I suppose you know best," said Tom; and then they were through the yard, across another road, and down a steep ravine by the side of a little copse. "He's been through them firs, any way," said Tom. "To him, Gaylass!" Then up they went the other side of the ravine, and saw the body of the hounds almost a field before them at the top.

"I suppose you know best," said Tom; and then they were through the yard, across another road, and down a steep ravine by the side of a little copse. "He's been through them firs, anyway," said Tom. Then up they went the other side of the ravine, and saw the hounds almost a field ahead of them at the top.


"I say,--that took some of the wind out of a fellow," said Pollock.

"I say, that took some of the wind out of a fellow," said Pollock.


"You mustn't mind about wind now," said Burgo, dashing on.

"Don't mind about that now," said Burgo, dashing on.


"Wasn't the pace awful, coming up to that farmhouse?" said Calder Jones, looking round to see if Grindley was shaken off. But Grindley, with some six or seven others, was still there. And there, also, always in the next field to the left, was George Vavasor. He had spoken no word to any one since the hunt commenced, nor had he wished to speak to any one. He desired to sell his horse,--and he desired also to succeed in the run for other reasons than that, though I think he would have found it difficult to define them.

"Wasn't the pace awful?" said Calder Jones, looking round to see if Grindley was shaken off. But Grindley, with some six or seven others, was still there.
And there, also, always in the next field to the left, was George Vavasor. He had spoken no word to anyone, nor had he wished to. He desired to sell his horse - and he desired also to succeed in the hunt for other reasons, though he would have found it difficult to define them.


Now they had open grass land for about a mile, but with very heavy fences,--so that the hounds gained upon them a little, and Pollock's weight began to tell. The huntsman and Burgo were leading with some fortunate county gentleman whose good stars had brought him in upon them at the farmyard gate. It is the injustice of such accidents as this that breaks the heart of a man who has honestly gone through all the heat and work of the struggle! And the hounds had veered a little round to the left, making, after all, for Claydon's. "Darned if the Squire warn't right," said Tom. Sir William, though a baronet, was familiarly called the Squire throughout the hunt.

Now they had open grass for about a mile, but with very heavy fences; and the hounds veered round to the left, making, after all, for Claydon's.
"Darned if the Squire warn't right," said Tom.


"We ain't going for Claydon's now?" asked Burgo.


"Them's Claydon's beeches we sees over there," said Tom. "'Tain't often the Squire's wrong."


Here they came to a little double rail and a little quick-set hedge. A double rail is a nasty fence always if it has been made any way strong, and one which a man with a wife and a family is justified in avoiding. They mostly can be avoided, having gates; and this could have been avoided. But Burgo never avoided anything, and went over it beautifully. The difficulty is to be discreet when the man before one has been indiscreet. Tom went for the gate, as did Pollock, who knew that he could have no chance at the double rails. But Calder Jones came to infinite grief, striking the top bar of the second rail, and going head-foremost out of his saddle, as though thrown by a catapult. There we must leave him. Grindley, rejoicing greatly at this discomfiture, made for the gate; but the country gentleman with the fresh horse accomplished the rails, and was soon alongside of Burgo.

They came to a double rail and a quick-set hedge. A double rail is a nasty fence, and one which a man with a wife and family is justified in avoiding. They mostly can be avoided, having gates; and this one could have been avoided. But Burgo never avoided anything, and went over it beautifully. Tom went through the gate, as did Pollock, who knew that he could have no chance at the double rails.
But Calder Jones came to grief, striking the top bar, and going head-first out of his saddle, as though thrown by a catapult. There we must leave him. Grindley, rejoicing greatly at this discomfiture, took the gate; but a country gentleman with a fresh horse jumped the rails, and was soon alongside Burgo.


"I didn't see you at the start," said Burgo.


"And I didn't see you," said the country gentleman; "so it's even."

"And I didn't see you," said the country gentleman.