A WRANGLER. 95 



yards from where Crookton has placed himself — a great 

 deal better luck than he deserves. 



" A mangy bagman, I'll bet a thousand to one. 

 Things were getting too scandalous there, and Hawley 

 thinks this will retrieve the character of the place," 

 growls Crookton. 



" Well, he's leading the hounds at a good pace, at 

 any rate," says Scatterly, as we gallop along full swing, 

 and to this undeniable proposition Crookton can only 

 reply with a grunt. 



Into a covert with dense undergrowth the hounds 

 plunge, where for a time they seem at fault ; and Crook- 

 ton, after growing very angry at what he deemed the 

 imminent probability of the fox being " headed by some 

 confounded tailor," proceeds to anathematise his groom 

 for not putting on the bit he wanted to ride in, and to 

 complain angrily of the total incapacity of saddlers in 

 general, and the tradesman he honours with his patron- 

 age in particular, who is, beyond comparison, the 

 biggest ass that ever spoilt good leather. The hounds 

 stay for some time in the covert without hitting off the 

 scent, and Crookton knows why. 



" Find the fox ? No ! They don't seem to, indeed, 

 and no wonder ! Akerton's not happy unless his 

 hounds are as fat as pigs. They don't want to run, 

 and couldn't if they did. Let the brutes lie down before 

 the fire and go to sleep, and they'd be happy," observes 

 the genial Captain. 



" I really think they are treated very judiciously," 



