his 'little bill' (L430) for the three previous
years was settled; and flesh being very scarce in the country, the hounds
were quite light and fit to go. Joe had gone to try and coax Greystones out
of a ton or two of meal, on the strength of its being New Year's Day.

'Dash the feller! wot's got'im?' exclaimed Watchorn, seizing the latch, and
rattling it furiously. The melody of the hungry pack increased. ''Ord rot
the door!' exclaimed the infuriated huntsman, setting his back against it;
at the first push, open it flew. Watchorn fell back, and the astonished
pack poured over his prostrate body, regardless alike of his holiday coat,
his tidy tie, and toilenette vest. What a scrimmage! What a kick-up was
there! Away the hounds scampered, towling and howling, some up to the
fleshwheel, to see if there was any meat; some to the bone heap, to see if
there was any there; others down to the dairy, to try and effect an
entrance in it; while Launcher, and Lightsome, and Burster, rushed to the
backyard of Nonsuch House, and were presently over ears in the pig-pail.

'Get me my horn! get me my whop!--get me my cap!--get me my bouts!'
exclaimed Watchorn, as he recovered his legs, and saw his wife eyeing the
scene from the door. 'Get me my bouts!--get me my cap!--get me my
whop!--get me my horn, woman!' continued he, reversing the order of things,
and rubbing the hounds' feetmarks off his clothes as he spoke.

Mrs. Watchorn was too well drilled to dwell upon orders, and she met her
lord and master in the passage with the enumerated articles in her hand.
Watchorn having deposited himself on an entrance-hall chair--for it was a
roomy, well-furnished house, having been the steward's while there was
anything to take care of--Mrs. Watchorn proceeded to strip off his gaiters
while he drew on his boots and crowned himself with his cap. Mrs. Watchorn
then buckled on his spurs, and he hurried off, horn in hand, desiring her
to have him a basin of turtle-soup ready against he came in; adding, 'She
knew where to get it.' The frosty air then resounded with the twang, twang,
twang of his horn, and hounds began drawing up from all quarters, just as
sportsmen cast up at a meet from no one knows where.

'He-here, hounds--he-here, good dogs!' cried he, coaxing and making much of
the first-comers: 'he-here. Galloper, old boy!' continued he, diving into
his coat-pocket, and throwing him a bit of biscuit. The appearance of food
had a very encouraging