" for Mark is chairman of the line,
and everybody's friend beside; and as he stands there being scraped,
he finds time to inquire after every one of the officials by turns,
and after their wives, children, and sweethearts beside.

"What a fine specimen of your English squire!" says Stangrave.

"He is no squire; he is the Whitbury banker, of whom I told you."

"Armsworth!" said Stangrave, looking at the old man with interest.

"Mark Armsworth himself. He is acting as squire, though, now; for he
has hunted the Whitford Priors ever since poor old Lavington's death."

"Now then--those horse-boxes!"...

"Very sorry, sir; I telegraphed up, but we could get but one down."

"Put the horses into that, then; and there's an empty carriage! Jack,
put the hounds into it, and they shall all go second class, as sure as
I'm chairman!"

The grinning porters hand the strange passengers in, while Mark counts
the couples with his whip-point,--

"Ravager--Roysterer; Melody--Gay-lass; all right. Why, where's that
old thief of a Goodman?"

"Went over a gate as soon as he saw the couples; and wouldn't come
in at any price, sir," says the huntsman. "Gone home by himself, I
expect."

"Goodman, Goodman, boy!" And forthwith out of the station-room slips
the noble old hound, grey-nosed, grey-eyebrowed, who has hidden, for
purposes of his own, till he sees all the rest safe locked in.

Up he goes to Mark, and begins wriggling against his knees, and
looking up as only dogs can. "Oh, want to go first-class with me, eh?
Jump in, then!" And in jumps the hound, and Mark struggles after him.

"Hillo, sir! Come out! Here are your betters here before you," as he
sees Stangrave, and a fat old lady in the opposite corner.

"Oh, no; let the dog stay!" says Stangrave.

"I shall wet you, sir, I'm afraid."

"Oh, no."

And Mark settles himself, puffing, with the hound's head on his knees,
and begins talking fast and loud.

"Well, Mr. Mellot, you're a stranger here. Haven't seen you since poor
Miss Honour died. Ah, sweet angel she was! Thought my Mary would never
get over it. She's just such another, though I say it, barring the
beauty. Goodman, boy! You recollect old Goodman, son of Galloper, that
the old squire gave our old squire?"

Claude, of course, knows--as all do who know those parts--who The Old
Squire is; long may he live, patriarch of the chase! The genealogy he
does not.

"Ah, well--Miss Honour took to the pup, and used to walk