t from his brother.

"My dear Hilary," Mr Ffolliot exclaimed, straightening his hat, which
had become disarranged in the violence of his son's impact, "one would
think no one had ever seen a fox before; why be so excited about it?"

"But didn't you see him, sir?" Buz persisted. "There he goes close by
the garden wall; oh, do look."

Mr Ffolliot looked for all he was worth. He twiddled the glasses and
put them out of focus, but naturally he failed to behold the mythical
fox which was the product of his offspring's fertile brain.

They were at the bottom of the slope now, and Buz gave a sigh of relief.

"I thought I saw two youths in the five-acre field," Mr Ffolliot
remarked presently; "what were they doing?"

"Practising footer, I fancy," Buz said easily, thankful that at last he
could safely speak the truth.

"Ah," said Mr Ffolliot, "it is extraordinary what a lot of time the
working classes seem able to spend upon games nowadays. Still, I'm
always glad they should play rather than merely watch. It is that
watching and not doing that saps the moral as well as the physical
strength of the nation."

"It's Thursday, you see, father--early closing," Buz suggested.

"Well, well, I'm glad they should have their game. Shall we stroll
round and have a look at them?"

"Oh I wouldn't, if I were you, father, they'd stop directly. These
village chaps are always so shy. It would spoil their afternoon."

"Would it?" Mr Ffolliot asked dubiously; "would it? I should have
thought they would have found encouragement in the fact that their
Squire took an interest in their sports."

"I don't think so," Buz said decidedly; "they hate to be looked at when
they're practising."

"Very well, very well, if you think so," Mr Ffolliot said with
surprising meekness; "we'll go and see Willets instead, and tell him
about that fox."

"I don't think I'd bother him, the fox is miles away by now."

"Well, where shall we go?" Mr Ffolliot demanded testily; "I've come out
to walk with you, and you do nothing but object to every direction I
propose."

"Let us," said Buz, praying for inspiration, "let us go straight on
till we come to a cleaner bit."

Mr Ffolliot looked ruefully at his boots. "It is wet," he remarked,
"mind you don't slip with that arm of yours."

"Shall I take the glasses, father?" Buz asked politely.

"Yes, do, though I'm not sure that I wholly approve of Grantly lending
these expensive glasses to you young