All porters and guards touch their hats to him; the station-master
rushes up and down frantically, shouting, "Where are those
horse-boxes? Now then, look alive!" 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?"