(9) 



MR. GRIMBOY. 



THE FATHER OF THE HUNT. 



HINK the 'ounds '11 find 'ere, sir?" inquires 

 little Jack Sprouter (from London), splashing 

 up to a solitary horseman, who is sitting 

 solemnly on his horse right in the middle of the very 

 swampy, snipe-inhabited-looking scrubs belonging to 

 Tackleton Wood. The horseman addressed turns round 

 in his saddle, eyes Sprouter from head to foot, and replies 

 grufQy, in a most decisive manner, '' No, sir ; I am of 

 opinion that they will not find, sir." 



He then frowns grimly, relapses into his former statue- 

 like position, and proceeds to mutter audibly to himself, 

 Mr. Sprouter, who is all attention, just catching such 

 interjections as " Damned railways. — Never any foxes 

 here now. — Billy Button. — Infernal counter-jumpers down 

 for the day. — Hounds going to the devil," and so on. 

 Truth to tell, the cockney is rather relieved than other- 

 wise by the statue's reply, for he likes splashing 

 about in the renowned Scrubs, uncommonly. There 



