A MINCING LANE M. F. H. G3 



was glass — a medicine bottle. Toppler was not 

 going to blow his horn, bnt to have a drink ! 



A closer inspection of Toppler strongly sup- 

 ported the idea that the instrument I had seen 

 was that upon which Squire Poult's huntsman 

 performed with dangerous regularity. 



Voices the other side of the hedge divert 

 attention from Toppler, and getting through 

 a gap, I find the farmer on the hairy-heeled 

 mare still arguing with his companion as to 

 what induced the tln-ee couple of hounds to 

 leave Hess's farm. Squire Poult, to whom 

 indirect appeals are constantly addressed, is 

 sitting near them, apparently waiting to act 

 upon the decision at which, upon very vague 

 and conjectural premises, the opponents may 

 presently arrive. 



At length, Toppler having mounted his white 

 horse and reached the group, the motion to 

 return to Hess's farm appears likely to be 

 carried. It is a quarter to two ; I have ordered 

 lunch — nearer three than a couple of miles off — 

 at two o'clock, and I turn my mare's head and 

 trot off homewards, wondering wherein the sport 

 or amusement of hunting with Squire Poult's 

 hounds might be supposed to consist. 



***** 



Some time after this experience of cub-hunt- 



