e up to us, and begged as a personal favour to himself
that we would accompany him to a particular point, from which he could
ensure us a good start if the fox went away--his face becoming scarlet
as he expressed a hope "Miss Coventry would not allow her fondness for
the chase to lead her into unnecessary danger;" whilst Frank looked at
him with a half-amused, half-puzzled expression that seemed to say,
"What a queer creature you are; and what the deuce can that matter to
you?"

I wonder why people always want to oblige you when you don't want to
be obliged; "too civil by half" is much more in the way than "not half
civil enough." So we rode on with Squire Haycock, and took up a
position at the end of the wood that commanded a view of the whole
proceedings, and, as Frank whispered to me, was "the likeliest place
in the world if we wanted to head the fox."

The Heavy-top hounds are an establishment such as, I am given to
understand, is not usually kept in Leicestershire, Northamptonshire,
and other so-called "flying counties." I like to gain all the
information I can--Cousin John calls this thirst for knowledge,
"female curiosity"--and gather from him that the Heavy-top consists of
twenty-two couples of hunting hounds, and that the whole twenty-two
come out three times a week during the season. I don't see why they
shouldn't, I'm sure; they look very fat, and remind me of the otter
hounds poor Uncle Horace used to keep when I was a child. He (that's
my oracle, Cousin John) further adds that they are remarkably
"steady"--which is more than can be said of their huntsman, who is
constantly drunk--and that they consume a vast quantity of "flesh,"
which, far from being a meritorious, appears to me a disgusting
tendency. They are capital "line-hunters," so says John; a
"line-hunter," I imagine, is a hound that keeps snuffing about under
the horses' feet, and must be a most useful auxiliary, when, as is
often the case, the sportsmen are standing on the identical spot where
the fox has crossed. He considers them a very "killing" pack, not in
manners or appearance certainly, but in perseverance and undying
determination. Their huntsman is what is called "one of the old sort."
If this is a correct description, I can only say that "the old sort"
must have worn the brownest and shabbiest of boots, the oldest of
coats, and the greasiest of caps; must have smelt of brandy on all
occasions, and lived in a besotted state of general co