182 The Hunting Field With Horse and Hound 



all day. A thick, yellow, greasy fog enveloped everything, 

 bringing with it from the air above the smoke and soot from 

 a million fires. It made your eyes smart and irritated your 

 lungs and lampblacked your linen. It not only made every- 

 tliing damp and clammy to the touch but it penetrated your 

 bones to cliill the marrow and make you cross outside and 

 inside. 



Such a day was December tliirty-first, eighteen hundred and 

 ninety-nine, in London. We had spent our Christmas away 

 from home and now the New Year was at hand, but in such a 

 melancholy garb as to bring on a fit of homesiclviiess, or some- 

 thing worse, the blues. 



In the hotel bar-room, the landlady was demanding an 

 extra sixpenny piece from a transient. The soft expressionless 

 face of the barmaid even failed to produce a grin as she tittered 

 to a soft-pated youngster, who was drinking her health wliile 

 he squeezed her hand over the bar, and the other chappies who 

 had come in on the same errand were dull and stupid beyond 

 the effects of "polly and scotch." 



"Here's a letter for you, sir," said mine hostess, unex- 

 pectedly. It read : "INIr. Leopold de Rothschild wishes me to 

 inform you that there is to be a meet of Lord Rothscliild's 

 hounds to-morrow at Vicarage Farm, Wingrave, Leighton 

 Buzzard. Although it is a bye day, Mr. Rothschild thinks 

 you would enjoy it, as it will be over some of our most beauti- 

 ful country. Tliis being a holiday for many, the attendance 

 is sure to be good. INIr. Rothschild also wishes me to say that 

 if you can come, answer by wire so I can arrange for your 

 mount, which I have in reserve pending your reply. 



'Tarver. 

 "Private Secretary to Leopold de Rothschild." 



"If I can come!" I would go anywhere to get out of this, 

 but really I am as bad as the ladies, bless them, I have nothing 

 to wear. One pair of riding trousers is in the wash, the other 



