"Morning, gentlemen," accompanied by a bow to the ladies, apprises us of the fact that Sir John Lappington has arrived, and as we turn round in our saddles we see a cheery face beaming with health and goodnature, and note what a thorough business look both man and horse present. The horse is one of those rare specimens of weight-carriers, known as "a good thing in a small parcel." Standing about fifteen hands two inches, with quarters fit to jump over a house, and shoulders of equal value when landing the other side, clean flat legs with plenty of bone, and excellent feet, well ribbed up,[Pg 9] with a broad deep chest, it stands a living picture of the old-fashioned hunter that could and would go anywhere. And surely the man is not far behind in appearance. Riding about thirteen stone, or a little lighter, with somewhat a careless seat, one's first impression is that he is by no means smartly turned out, though the eye acknowledges at once the workman.

A second and more careful study shows us that, while there is an entire absence of gilt and gingerbread, of varnish and veneer, still, from the crown of his-well-brushed hat to the sole of his well-cleaned boot, everything is neatness itself. It may be that we take exception to the brown cords which Sir John always wears; but when one has tried to follow the clever cobby horse and his master through some of the roughest places in the day's work, and our leathers show plainly where we have been, we are fain to confess the wisdom of the said brown cords. Notwithstanding the cheery goodnature that[Pg 10] beams from the Master's face, there is something in his eye and chin that warns instinctively against riding over the hounds or heading a fox, and shows a latent power of anathema and rebuke which, when once heard, is not in a hurry forgotten.

Sir John Lappington has been Master of the Bullshire for four seasons. He took the hounds at the request of the county on the death of Mr. Billington, who had hunted them for six-and-twenty years without hardly missing a day. Some few people urged that the new Master would not be found old enough to control so large a field, being but thirty years of age when he commenced his reign; but the first day dispelled their doubts, for on some of the "galloping-and-jumping" contingent trying to have things their own way, and paying no heed to repeated remonstrances to "give hounds a chance," the young Master astonished everyone by saying to the huntsman: "Stop 'em, Tom;" and when that was effected, turning to the offenders: "Now,[Pg 11] gentlemen, when you have done your d——d steeplechasing we will go on hunting. If you want to break your necks you may put down my name for five pounds to bury the first who does so, provided you run it off at once, so that other people who prefer hunting to rough-riding may not be kept waiting."

This effectually stopped them, and from that day very little trouble has been shown, and when any have offended, it has generally required but one talking-to to bring them to a sense of what was required of them. Such is the man who now rides up punctual to the minute, and is greeted by all with a hearty welcome. The hunt servants, with old Tom the huntsman at their head, are as proud of being under him as they can be, and the hounds simply adore him. See how they fly, heedless of Harry's "Ware 'oss, ger away baik," clustering all round the cobby hunter, and leaving the marks of their affection on boot and saddle. "Eu leu, Minstrel, old boy; ay, Harbinger, good old man," says Sir John, a[Pg 12] word for each by name; and back they go to the rule of Tom, who cannot for the life of him help feeling a twinge of jealousy, that "the hounds should be so 'nation fond of t' young Master, most as much as they are o' me, I'll be blessed if they ain't."

Five minutes of friendly chaff with the carriages, two more with old Farmer Simms, who, on being shown his wife's poultry bill, says: "Give it here, Sir John, give it here. The ould woman would take the money out of a man's breeches if he did not keep his hands in his pockets," and with a laugh Tom gets the signal to move off, Sir John stopping before he canters on to the hounds to say: "Never mind, Simms, I daresay we shall make it all right. The missus and I are old friends," and replying to Simms's loudly-expressed opinion that "The ould wench 'ull fleece you, I fear," with a deprecatory wave of the hand as he ranges up alongside the old huntsman.

The first draw is a gorse lying on the[Pg 13] side of a hill, where there is always a little difficulty in restraining the impatience of the field, who, anxious for a start, are rather apt to override the hounds. There is a hunting-gate, beyond which no one is allowed to go until the hounds are well away, and here the Master posts himself, saying in a loud voice that can be heard by all: "If there is any stranger in the field to-day, he must understand that while hounds are drawing no one is allowed farther than this." At this moment his quick eye catches sight of a youngster who has jumped the rails lower down, and hopes he has escaped detection. "Come back, you sir," rings out; "come back; and as you are so fond of timber you can take the rails up hill. Dash your impudence, when I have just said no one is allowed to go for'ard! Come, at them—no funking;" and as, amid roars of laughter, the culprit, looking exceedingly foolish, rides at the rails, and gets a rattling fall, Sir John chuckles to himself: "Don't think he'll try[Pg 14] that game on again." The hounds are by this time hard at work, and from the way they throw themselves out of the gorse there are evident signs of a speedy find. With keen enjoyment the Master watches the young entry, and as first one and then another of his favourites momentarily expose themselves to view, he thinks he would not exchange his empire for untold wealth.

In this enviable frame of mind he is interrupted by the appearance of a tall cadaverous-looking individual on foot, who, addressing himself to him, says: "Sir John Lappington, I believe?" "That's me; what can I do for you?" is the reply. "Ah! they told me I should find you here, ah! I—my name is Simpkins, Mr. Simpkins, Secretary of the Young Men's Improvement Society. I have been requested to ask for your patronage and subscription for a new school our society have decided on opening for young men in Lappington; and as they told me you were following the chase, ah![Pg 15] and my time is limited, I thought I should not be intruding if I could persuade you to" (pulling out a long subscription-list) "look over this."

Here, luckily, "Away, g-o-rne a-wa-a-y!" cut short the conversation, and the Master, swinging down the hill and slipping over the bank and ditch at the bottom, almost before the astonished Simpkins has made out what has happened, might have been heard muttering to himself: "Well, I am blowed! Did anyone hear of a man being asked to subscribe to a school when hounds had just found? Following the chase too! If they don't teach the young men better than that, the future Lappingtonians won't be much in the sporting line. Hark for'ard; for'ard away!" and sending his horse somewhat viciously at a bigger pace than usual he is shut out from sight, where for the time I will leave him.