"Went over a gate as soon as he saw the couples; and wouldn't come
in at any price, sir," says the huntsman. "Gone home by himself, I
expect."

"Goodman, Goodman, boy!" And forthwith out of the station-room slips
the noble old hound, grey-nosed, grey-eyebrowed, who has hidden, for
purposes of his own, till he sees all the rest safe locked in.

Up he goes to Mark, and begins wriggling against his knees, and
looking up as only dogs can. "Oh, want to go first-class with me, eh?
Jump in, then!" And in jumps the hound, and Mark struggles after him.

"Hillo, sir! Come out! Here are your betters here before you," as he
sees Stangrave, and a fat old lady in the opposite corner.

"Oh, no; let the dog stay!" says Stangrave.

"I shall wet you, sir, I'm afraid."

"Oh, no."

And Mark settles himself, puffing, with the hound's head on his knees,
and begins talking fast and loud.

"Well, Mr. Mellot, you're a stranger here. Haven't seen you since poor
Miss Honour died. Ah, sweet angel she was! Thought my Mary would never
get over it. She's just such another, though I say it, barring the
beauty. Goodman, boy! You recollect old Goodman, son of Galloper, that
the old squire gave our old squire?"