2 The Master of the Hounds. 



Hats off is the order of the day, as my lord trots up to 

 his hounds, Trimbush and Traveller rushing forward 

 with a great show of affection to greet him. 



A tall, slim man of about fifty or so, dressed to per- 

 fection, and mounted as he is on a great slashing, well- 

 bred brown horse, which he sits to admiration, there is 

 no getting away from the fact that he looks all over, from 

 the crown of his curly-brimmed hat to the soles of his 

 highly-polished top-boots, exactly what a Master of 

 Hounds should be. 



A year or two ago a dreadful trick was played upon his 

 lordship, a trick indeed altogether so painful to his 

 feelings that he was all but throwing up the hounds in 

 disgust. 



The Harkaway, as doubtless the sporting reader is 

 aware, are never advertised in the papers as most of the 

 other packs of the United Kingdom are. 



One reason being that they never have been during 

 their existence, and my lord, who is very Conservative in 

 all his notions, don't see why he should begin now. 

 Another is, that he thinks that by not advertising his 

 meets, he keeps off a lot of what he is pleased to term 

 "Those nasty London people," from honouring his hunt 

 with their presence. 



Now, one of these gentry, a blustering, swaggering, 

 loud-talking, red-faced personage, Baggs by name, took it 

 into his head one fine day to hunt with the Harkaway ; 

 and for one whole season, and the beginning of the one 

 we speak of, he had kept his horses at the Daisyfield 

 Arms at BuUerton, and made his appearance regularly, 

 three times a week, at the meet of his lordship's hounds. 

 His sonorous "■ Good morning, my lord," as Lord 



