angles and employing their sticks as grappling irons. You can see them
over from the Rock whooping after Spanish foxes, bestriding their
steeds anywhere but in the appointed place.

As every proper farmer's boy has long, long thoughts of magic oceans,
spice isles and clipper ships, so I will warrant every normal Naval
officer dreams of a little place in the grass counties, a stableful
of long-tails and immortal runs with the Quorn and Pytchley.

It was thus with our Mr. MacTavish, anyhow. A stern parent and a
strong-armed crammer projected him into the Navy, and in the Navy
he remained for years bucketing about the salt seas in light and
wobbly cruisers, enforcing intricate Bait Laws off Newfoundland in
mid-winter, or playing hide-and-seek with elusive dhows on the Equator
in midsummer, but always with a vision of that little place in his
mind's eye.

His opportunity arrived with the demise of the stern parent and the
acquisition of a comfortable legacy. MacTavish sent in his papers and
stepped ashore for good. He discovered the haven of his heart's desire
in the neighbourhood of Melton, purchased a pig and a cow (which
turned out to be a bullock) to give the little place a homely air,
engaged a terrier for ratting and intercourse, and with the assistance
of some sympathetic dealers was assembling as comprehensive a
collection of curbs, spavins, sprung tendons, pin-toes, herring-guts,
ewe-necks, cow-hocks and capped elbows as could be found between the
Tweed and Tamar, when--Mynheer W. HOHENZOLLERN (as he is to-day) went
and done it.

The evening of August 4th, 1914, discovered MacTavish sitting on the