William Waggleton. 123 



speaks of him in conversation as that "beast Waggleton." 

 Another prominent member of the bench of magistrates, 

 too, did he manage mortally to offend not long ago. None 

 other, indeed, than Mr. Yellowboy, of Fatfield Park, the 

 great City banker. Mr. Yellowboy is a stiff, pompous 

 personage, with a very great opinion of himself — perhaps 

 a better one indeed than other people have, for in the first 

 place folks, as a rule, don't care about the throaty, conse- 

 quential air he generally assumes, added to which there 

 are nasty stories about of dead foxes having been found in 

 his coverts, and large steel traps seen lying about in 

 different places on his domain. Yellowboy professes, 

 notwithstanding, to be fond of fox-hunting, and in fact the 

 hounds meet at Fatfield once every season, on which 

 occasion there is always a terrific breakfast, or dejeuner 

 as Mrs. Yellowboy calls it. The local reporter comes out 

 with uncommon strength, you may depend, that week in 

 that wonderful journal, to wit, the Bullerton Chronicle^ 

 and four whole columns are filled with his glowing account 

 of the display, headed in large letters, *' The Grand Hunt 

 Breakfast at Fatfield Hall." 



Last year Yellowboy outdid himself, for to add to the 

 general effect he had enlisted into his service the volun- 

 teer band from Bullerton, who were installed on the 

 lawn in full uniform. They only knew three tunes — 

 two marches and a polka — it is true, but the morning 

 being cold, inclining to frost indeed, and there being no 

 end of champagne about, they blew, and snorted, and 

 banged about in splendid style. 



" What an old ass it is ! " remarked our young friend 

 Charlie Wildoats, as his mare shied at the band. 

 " Blowed if it ain't like a fair. However, it only happens 



