Melton, to ''unt with the Quorn'; some at Northampton, to ''unt with the
Pytchley'; some at Lincoln, to ''unt with Lord 'Enry'; and some at Louth,
to ''unt with'--he didn't know who. What a fine flattering, well-spoken
world this is, when the speaker can raise his own consequence by our
elevation! One would think that 'envy, hatred, malice, and all
uncharitableness' had gone to California. A weak-minded man might have his
head turned by hearing the description given of him by his friends. But
hear the same party on the running-down tack!--when either his own
importance is not involved, or dire offence makes it worth his while' to
cut off his nose to spite his face.' No one would recognize the portrait
then drawn as one of the same individual.

Mr. Leather, as we said before, was in the laudatory strain, but, like many
indiscreet people, he overdid it. Not content with magnifying the stud to
the liberal extent already described, he must needs puff his master's
riding, and indulge in insinuations about' showing them all the way,' and
so on. Now nothing 'aggrawates' other grooms so much as this sort of
threat, and few things travel quicker than these sort of vapourings to
their masters' ears. Indeed, we can only excuse the lengths to which
Leather went, on the ground of his previous coaching career not having
afforded him a due insight into the delicacies of the hunting stable; it
being remembered that he was only now acting as stud-groom for the first
time. However, be that as it may, he brewed up a pretty storm, and the
longer it raged the stronger it became.

''Ord dash it!' exclaimed young Spareneck, the steeple-chase rider,
bursting into Scorer's billiard-room in the midst of a full gathering, who
were looking on at a grand game of poule, 'Ord dash it! there's a fellow
coming who swears by Jove that he'll take the shine out of us all, "cut us
all down!"'

'I'll play him for what he likes!' exclaimed the cool, coatless Captain
Macer, striking his ball away for a cannon.

'Hang your play!' replied Spareneck; 'you're always thinking of play--it's
hunting I'm talking of.' bringing his heavy, silver-mounted jockey-whip a
crack down his leg.

'You don't say so!' exclaimed Sam Shortcut, who had been flattered into
riding rather harder than he liked, and feared his pluck might be put to
the test.

'What a ruffian!'--(puff)--observed Mr. Waffles, taking his cigar from his
mouth as he sat on the bench, dressed as a rack