MOTHER HUNT 111 



The celebrated " Mr. Manton " ^ invited the Pack to a day on her 

 ground near Newmarket, where we went by train. It was an early 

 start and cold morning, and his Whips having turned out extra 

 smart, we were horrified to find Hunt had a two-day's beard on him 

 and was not looking his best. He assured us it would be all right, 

 and when the cab from the station got out into the country he 

 stopped it, pulled a razor out of his pocket ; one of the cushions was 

 held against the window as a reflector, and he proceeded to have 

 what he called "a dry shave." The razor was blunt, the beard 

 strong, the looking-glass indifferent, and Hunt's hand shaking with 

 cold. The result was a succession of jumps, cuts, and d — ns, and 

 when he had finished he looked as though he had been pulled 

 through a thornbush, and by the time we arrived at " Mr. Manton's " 

 his white tie looked like an irregularly red spotted bird's eye. I 

 think Her Grace was much astonished at Hunt's appearance. We 

 had a great spread, and I fancy a goodish day. Hunt was going 

 lame, and a yokel, seeing him, made the remark, " That bloke won't 

 go far, he's got a wheel down." But lameness made little difference 

 to him once hounds were fairly running. 



Hunt used to have supper for his beagling friends on Sundays, 

 and on one occasion said to the writer, " I have to go home on 

 business, so shan't be at supper. I have asked the usual crowd, and 

 one or two quiet freshmen who come out with the Beagles that I 

 want to be civil to." The " usual crowd " was a pretty hot lot. All 

 went well till supper was over, when the usual ballyrag began with 

 throwing the various fruits on the table and, as ammunition ran 

 short, the chickens and viands. But there was one heavy projectile 

 consisting of about 2 lbs. of the thick, hard end of a tongue, and who- 

 ever possessed this was till he had discharged it master of the 

 situation, and immediately it fell there was a wild fight for it. In 

 the midst of the row the landlord put his head round the corner of 

 the door, and was on the point of expostulating when the tongue hit 

 the panel of the door and split it from top to bottom. The worthy 

 landlord retired in a hurry, and the tongue eventually went through 



^ Duchess of Montrose, who built S. Agues, Newmarket, as a memorial of her 

 second husband. 



