ts
and likes it scorns his ease, and resolves that he will at any rate
persevere. He tumbles into his tub, and a little before nine comes out
to his breakfast, still doubting sorely whether or no the day "will do."
There he, perhaps, meets one or two others like himself, and learns that
the men who hunt and don't like it are still warm in their beds. On such
mornings as these, and such mornings are very many, the men who hunt and
do not like it certainly have the best of it. The man who hunts and
does like it takes himself out to some kitchen-garden or neighbouring
paddock, and kicks at the ground himself. Certainly there is a crust,
a very manifest crust. Though he puts up in the country, he has to go
sixteen miles to the meet, and has no means of knowing whether or no the
hounds will go out. "Jorrocks always goes if there's a chance," says one
fellow, speaking of the master. "I don't know," says our friend; "he's a
deal slower at it than he used to be. For my part, I wish Jorrocks would
go; he's getting too old." Then he bolts a mutton chop and a couple of
eggs hurriedly, and submits himself to be carried off in the trap.

Though he is half an hour late at the meet, no hounds have as yet come,
and he begins to curse his luck. A non-hunting day, a day that turns out
to be no day for hunting purposes, begun in this way, is of all days the
most melancholy. What is a man to do with himself who has put himself
into his boots and breeches, and who then finds himself, by one o'clock,
landed back at his starting-point without employment? Who under such
circumstances can apply himself to any salutary employment? Cigars and
stable-talk are all that remain to him; and it is well for him if he can
refrain from the additional excitement of brandy and water.

But on the present occasion we will not presume that our friend has
fallen into so deep a bathos of misfortune. At twelve o'clock Tom
appears, with the hounds following slowly at his heels; and a dozen men,
angry with impatience, fly at him with assurances that there has been no
sign of frost since ten o'clock. "Ain't there?" says Tom; "you look at
the north sides of the banks, and see how you'd like it." Some one makes
an uncivil remark as to the north sides of the banks, and wants to know
when old Jorrocks is coming. "The squire'll be here time enough," says
Tom. And then there takes place that slow walking up and down of the
hounds, which on such mornings always continues f