2o 4 THE SPORT OF KINGS 



"Not more than two brace and a half, sir," is the 

 reply. " How many did you see ? " addressing 

 the second whipper-in. " A brace and a half, sir." 

 "See any old 'uns ? " (speaking to them both), 

 and the answer is, " No, sir." "No more did I," 

 says our huntsman, and then he sums up the situa- 

 tion. " Four brace — killed a brace of 'em ; leaves 

 three brace of cubs, and no old 'uns. Shan't find 

 any of these when we come agen." And then he 

 adds, " When old Squire Topthorn lived here we 

 never had less than four or five breeds, and we 

 never came without finding." 



The cub-hunting season is over, and it is quite 

 time that our shooting tenant's foxes should have 

 another bustling up. But that would never do. 

 My coverts have not been shot, therefore hounds 

 must not come into my coverts. So the weeks 

 pass by till the coverts are shot, and a goodly 

 number of the slain has been recorded in the local 

 papers, and then comes the great day of the lawn 

 meet. The shooting tenant's town friends, male 

 and female, muster in force, and show themselves 

 off* to advantage, as they think, whilst they are 

 gathering subject for six weeks' conversation when 

 they return home. It is altogether a showy scene, 

 but you can easily see what old Ben, the huntsman, 

 thinks of the proceedings by his taciturn demeanour 

 and the look of disgust upon his face. I should 

 not like to be the one of his satellites to ask for a 

 favour this morning, and the man would need to 

 have the persuasive powers of an angel to coax a 

 loan of a shilling from him. He listens in grim 

 silence to the eloquence of the man in velveteen, 

 who discourses fluently about the foxes he has seen 

 in the Oak Coppice, and the Fir Clump, and the 



