3i6 THE HUNTING FIELD 



A mamma, with a " fairish chance " daughter will 

 kindly put him down at forty, while another with 

 small, or diminished hopes, will run him up to sixty. 

 Still, if there is a dinner going on within ten miles of 

 Turtleton, Codshead is sure of an invite. Single men 

 are always in request, even though they are as big 

 as — 



*' Two single gentlemen rolled into one." 



This year he has shone forth in redoubled splendour 

 — Mayor of Turtleton, as well as Colonel Codshead, 

 and the consequent good living is visible alike on his 

 carcase and on his countenance. His hunting serves 

 to bring him in dinners. Very few appearances in a 

 red coat procure a man the reputation of a foxhunter 

 among the non-hunting portion of the community, 

 and the politeness of a well-judging world always 

 associates good society with the sport. Thus then, 

 if ]Mr. Closefist objects to having our Colonel invited 

 to dinner, insisting that he is nothing but a great 

 overgrown sponge, Mrs. Closefist will retaliate that he 

 is a man in the very first society, a man who visits 

 everybody, a great man with the Scourcountry hounds, 

 and Codshead comes, if in the hunting season, of 

 course in his red coat. Women and mackerel are all 

 for scarlet. 



But what a place Turtleton must be when Codshead 

 is its great authority on hunting. He is the Nimrod 

 of the place. Somehow burgesses are seldom built 

 for boots or saddles. They sit their horses, as they 

 do their stools, with firmness, ease and grace — until 

 they begin to move^ and then it's all up with them or 

 rather all down. Colonel Codshead returns thanks 

 for the toast, "Success to foxhunting," far oftener 

 than he puts the success of it to the proof. He is a 

 slow, pompous, broken-winded speaker — he looks like 

 one. " Gentlemen," says he, for it is the same thing 

 over and over again; "gentlemen," says he, looking 



