"Rotten night," reflected the big man who monopolised the roomiest
chair and the best position in front of the blazing logs. "Going to
town to-night?" The question was general: there were half a dozen
answers. Every one was going in by the last express. All of them had
dined well: they had been hungry and the club was a wealthy one; even
the most exclusive of appetites could be entertained at the Faraway
Country Club. The last 'bus was to leave the clubhouse at ten minutes
past ten, and it was then half-past eight. Ten minutes' drive from the
clubhouse on the edge of the little town to the railway station--then
thirty minutes to the heart of the big city in which the members lived
and died at great risk to themselves.

Each succeeding spring saw the formal opening of the Faraway Country
Club. The boards were pulled down from the windows and the door hinges
were oiled properly after a winter of discontent. May saw the
reopening, but it was not until June that crowds began to fill the
house and grounds. Only the more restless and hardy had the temerity
to test the pleasures of the raw spring days and nights. The M.F.H.
was a loyal, eager chap; he knew what was required of him in his
official capacity. With the first symptoms of softening soil he led
his followers through field and wood, promising the "real hunt" inside
of a month. Following a pack of overfed hounds was what every one at
Faraway Club called a "real hunt."

The night so meagrely described at the beginning of this tale followed
hard upon a grey, chill day. A few golfers had spent the afternoon
upon the course, inanely cursing the temporary tees and greens. A
couple of polo enthusiasts tried out their ponies, and several men and
women took their hunters over the course, that fairly bristled with
spectres of last year's anise-seed. Now they were comfortably