pstead?"

"It's all according to Hampstead's theories," said one.

"Only he'd have had the tinkers and the tailors too," said another.

"And wouldn't have had the ladies and gentlemen," said a third.

"I would have had the tailors and tinkers," said Hampstead, "and I
would have had the ladies and gentlemen, too, if I could have got
them to meet the tailors and tinkers;--but I would not have had that
young man who got me out into the hall just now."

"Why,--that was Crocker, the Post Office clerk," said Hautboy. "Why
shouldn't we have a Post Office clerk as well as some one else?
Nevertheless, Crocker is a sad cad." In the mean time Crocker was
walking home to Penrith in his dress boots.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE BRAESIDE HARRIERS.

The Braeside Harriers can hardly be called a "crack" pack of
hounds. Lord Hautboy had been right in saying that they were always
scrambling through ravines, and that they hunted whatever they
could find to hunt. Nevertheless, the men and the hounds were in
earnest, and did accomplish a fair average of sport under difficult
circumstances. No "Pegasus" or "Littlelegs," or "Pigskin," ever sent
accounts of wondrous runs from Cumberland or Westmoreland to the
sporting papers, in which the gentlemen who had asked the special
Pigskin of the day to dinner were described as having been "in"
at some "glorious finish" on their well-known horses Banker or
Buff,--the horses named being generally those which the gentlemen
wished to sell. The names of gorses and brooks had not become
historic, as have those of Ranksborough and Whissendine. Trains were
not run to suit this or the other meet. Gentlemen did not get out of
fast drags with pretty little aprons tied around their waists, like
girls in a country house coming down to breakfast. Not many perhaps
wore pink coats, and none pink tops. One horse would suffice for
one day's work. An old assistant huntsman in an old red coat, with
one boy mounted on a ragged pony, served for an establishment. The
whole thing was despicable in the eyes of men from the Quorn and
Cottesmore. But there was some wonderful riding and much constant
sport with the Braeside Harriers, and the country had given birth to
certainly the best hunting song in the language;--

Do you ken John Peel with his coat so gay;
Do you ken John Peel at the break of day;
Do you ken John Peel when he's far, far away
With his hounds and his horn in the morning.

Such