74 Charlie Wildoats, 



" Well, my dear Mr. Wildcats," replied Mr. Scumbler, 

 the faintest vestige of a grin passing over his face, " I'll 

 tell you all about it. The fact is, / was brought up as a 

 groom. So I think you'll agree with me that I ought to 

 know something about it." 



How Charlie Wildoats was chaffed in the smoking- 

 room that night can be imagined. He took it in good 

 part though, and swore that old Scumbler was a trump. 

 The bold artist has had many a good day on Charlie's 

 nags since the Molly Bawn day, for the oddly assorted 

 pair have become fast friends. In fact, going to pay 

 Scumbler a visit a short time ago at his studio in Berners 

 Street, there was Charlie, to our great astonishment, a 

 huge cigar in his mouth, sitting — red coat, top-boots, and 

 all — for his portrait, to the worthy painter, which portrait 

 we hope to see on the line at Burlington House very 

 shortly. 



To return to Willoughby Wood. They find sure 

 enough, and we, getting outside the covert as quickl}^ 

 as we can, from our pony's broad back watch comfortably 

 all the vicissitudes of the chase. By Jingo ! the fox has 

 crossed the river, I do believe. He has, too. The 

 leading hounds plump in, the rest follow. The huntsman 

 goes at it full tilt, the field to a man turn away and gallop 

 in search of a bridge. Stay, I am wrong. One man in 

 scarlet, evidently rather behindhand, comes straight at it, 

 a hundred miles an hour, notwithstanding its swollen 

 state. Who can it be, I wonder ? I seem to know the 

 figure, too. 



" I'll tell you who it be, zur, says a gamekeeper 

 who is standing on the top of a fence, at our side, as the 

 horse and rider land with a loud splash right in the middle 



