A MINCING LANE M. F. H, 61 



the figure bore as little resemblance to one of 

 the business-like looking servants of the Wessex 

 Hunt as could well be imagined. I rode on, 

 wondering what curious change could have come 

 o'er the spirit of the scene, and joined a knot 

 of horsemen on the grass by the roadside. 

 There was not a familiar face among them, and 

 I was about to speak when a discontented voice 

 broke in with, " I want to know what old Poult's 

 come here for? That's all;" and the speaker 

 paused for a reply. 



" He's come here because the hounds brought 

 him," a man, apparently a brother-farmer, 

 mounted on a hairy-heeled cart mare, answered. 



"And Toppler brought the hounds!" replied 

 No. 1. "I tell you I saw the fox go away with 

 three couple of hounds after him before we left 

 Hess's farm. Toppler's chancing it, and he's 

 chanced it wrong." 



The colloquy had, however, answered my un- 

 asked question. These were Mr. Poult's hounds 

 — Squire Poult he preferred to be called — and 

 they hunted the district adjoining the Wessex 

 country. I had heard of the pack but had never 

 seen it, and here was an unexpected opportunity. 

 Leaving the irate farmers to discuss the where- 

 abouts of the cub and the proceedings of the 

 three couple of hounds that seemed, so far as 



