66 SKETCHES IN THE HUNTING FIELD. 



near the kennels having as usual been drawn blank, we 

 make a move to the spinney beyond. 



"What sort of a fellow is Crossley ?" some one in- 

 quires, ranging up to Saddler's side, and nodding 

 towards the new-comer riding along talking to Down- 

 ing, who seems to have some sort of acquaintance with 

 the master, though he did not know the man. 



" Rather a good-looking fellow, I think, about 

 twenty-nine years old now, I suppose. Has a dark 

 moustache, and turns it up at the ends," Saddler 

 answers, all these facts being patent to us. 



"Yes, but what does he do r " Scatterly asks. 



"Rides under lo st. 7 lb. — and over anything," is the 

 oracular response. 



" I can see that, but is he a good fellow, I mean ? " 

 Scatterly continues. 



" Well, I should be surprised to hear him singing Dr. 

 Watts's hymns, or, at least, if he did I should fancy that 

 he had a very good reason for it," is all we can get out 

 of Saddler ; and Crawley Paine, the sporting novelist, 

 on being appealed to for information — for Crawley 

 knows everybody, and a good deal about him — makes 

 some remark in vaguely sporting phraseology about 

 Crossley " going rather short sometimes," and suggests 

 that we had better ask little Flutterton. 



With the incident to which Crawley Paine alludes we 

 are most of us acquainted, however. 



After that little matter of the chargers had been 

 cleared up, and when the temporary interruption to the 



