248 THE HUNTING FIELD 



They have neither the neat appropriateness of 

 the well got-up sportsman, nor the indifference of the 

 careless dresser. There is a sort of attempt — a sort 

 of shabby genteelishness about them, unknown in the 

 general run of hunt costume. 



Of course he rides in a cap. This he does for 

 the sake of identity, and in order that none of the 

 hazardous leaps he takes in the prosecution of his 

 calling of horse-seller, may be appropriated by any 

 one else. 



It is not a badly-shaped cap ; neither one of those 

 ridiculous sugar-loaf things we sometimes see sticking 

 a mile off a man's head, nor one of the squash order, 

 that look as if they only want ears to turn down to 

 make very comfortable travelling ones, but it has the 

 appearance of having been made by a workman, and 

 not of second-rate velvet either. This cap, indeed, 

 is the best thing about him ; but below it are a pair 

 of very watchful, restless, grey eyes, full of anxiety 

 and suspicion. " Conscience, which makes cowards 

 of us all," keeps Shabbyhounde in a constant state 

 of alarm. The meet of hounds, so enjoyable to the 

 sportsman, so fruitful in anticipations, and so 

 productive of agreeable surprises, is to him a scene 

 of constant nervous dread and anxiety. He does not 

 know who may cast up. The recollection of his 

 misdeeds crowds upon his memory, and his torment- 

 ing brain conjures the figures of appearing sportsmen 

 into the bodies of those whom his ingenuity has 

 defrauded. He does not know how parties will 

 receive him. He does not know whether the secret 

 of his last " do " may have oozed out, how many of 

 the lies he told in effecting it may have been detected, 

 or what Groom in whose power he has placed 

 himself may have betrayed him. All these are sad 

 drawbacks to the pleasures of the meet — sad 

 drawbacks to the pleasures of anything. 



To the man of sensitive mind there can be no 



