Mr. Grimboy. 1 1 



contrived to put his spurs on all wrong. Add to it all an 

 unhappy-looking two-guinea-a-day hunter, who is adorned 

 with a shockingly bad saddle and bridle, and you have the 

 picture complete. 



Now for his companion. Imagine a small, thin, 

 shrunken figure, clothed in a tightly-fitting red coat of the 

 old swallow-tailed pattern ; the rather querulous looking- 

 face is set off" by a hat, placed well down on his head, 

 giving the appearance thereby of being a size or two too 

 large for the wearer. The brim of the hat is turned up, so 

 much so that it might be likened to a railway arch, and 

 the end of a yellow bandana peeps slyly out from the 

 back. The old gentleman's necktie is white, and folded 

 goodness knows how many times round his neck. An 

 old-fashioned chain, with a heavy seal at the end, dangles 

 from his breeches-pocket; his breeches and boots are as 

 near perfection as possible, and he bestrides a well-bred, 

 clever-looking hunter, whose closely-docked tail and goose 

 rump makes him look nearly as old-fashioned as his master. 

 In fact, the pair look as if they had suddenly sprung out of 

 one of Aiken's pictures. Mr. Grimboy, of Mistletoe Grange 

 (for he it is whom the audacious Sprouter has just had the 

 temerity to address) is looked upon as the Father of the 

 Hunt, a title to which he has every right, seeing that he has 

 lived and hunted in the country ever since he was a boy, 

 and no one seems exactly to know how long ago that 

 was. No one indeed knows his age ; some say he is 

 eighty, some say he's ninety — pretty little Miss Chatter- 

 ton, indeed, going so far as to declare that she ith thure 

 dear old Mithter Grimboy must be a hundred at the very 

 least. Miss C. probably exaggerates a little, as fair 

 ladies are apt to do sometimes, but this is very certain, old 



