"'Say, Harry, the old man killed his fox well to-day," says Charles, the First Whip, to his junior, as they jog home to the kennels in the evening.
"Umph!" replies Harry; "but he need not have dropped it so hot on to me just because them two couple of loiterers stopped back. Blessed if I ever saw such hounds as them for messing about in cover. It's always the same. Caterer and Bellman, Pillager and Marksman, never up in time; and then if I gets on a bit, it's 'Where's them two couple? Go back and fetch 'em at once.' Dashed if I oughtn't to take a return ticket to every field in the county."
Charles, who thinks it by no means improbable that some day he may find himself with the horn of office, and Harry promoted to First Whip's place, merely says: "Well, you shouldn't be in such a thundering hurry to get off. You know your place is back, and back you should be."
At this juncture they ride up to The Bell and Horns, a famous halfway house, where they brew the best of ale, and can, if so disposed, give you a glass of the best whisky out of Ireland. The landlord, a sporting old veteran, bustles out and takes Tom's order for "Three pints of dog's nose" (a compound of ale and gin), "and some gruel for the nags."
"Well, what sort of a day have you had?" says he. "Nay, nay, don't mind the hound, let him be," as Harry is proceeding to correct Minstrel's attack of curiosity concerning the construction of Boniface's waistcoat. "The old boy and I are friends," and he pats the hound's sensible head.
Old Tom, having taken his face out of the pint pot, and smacking his lips, replies: "A first-rate day. Found in the gorse, run through Bouffler's meadows up to the Mere, turned in the lane, where the fox was headed, then over the Ring Hills, and killed by Bromley Wood. Charles here," pointing to his aide-de-camp, "was the means of our killing; and I must say Harry did uncommon well, though he does always want to be in front."
At this meed of praise from their chief both the Whips feel some inches taller, and Harry quite forgets his rating in the morning.
The horses gruelled and the score paid by the Huntsman, they are again on the road, having been joined by a couple of farmers going their way as far as the cross-roads, and with whom old Tom is soon in close confabulation. Harry rides for some distance without vouchsafing a word, save an occasional "Whip, get for'ard," to some straggler of the pack. At last he says: