I did not think he looked particularly glad. He was a Revenue
Commissioner residing in Mudnugger; a rank Conservative; a regular old
"John Company" man, with whom I had had more than one tiff in the
columns of the _Howler,_ leading to considerable correspondence.

"I trust that our collision in the flesh has had no worse results than
our tilts in print, Mr. Ghyrkins?"

"Not at all. Oh don't mention it. Bad enough, though, but no harm done,
none whatever," pulling up and looking at me as he pronounced the hist
two words with a peculiarly English slowness after a very quick
sentence.

While he was speaking, I was aware of a pair of riders walking their
horses toward us, and apparently struggling to suppress their amusement
at the mishap to the old gentleman, which they must have witnessed. In
truth, Mr. Ghyrkins, who was stout and rode a broad-backed obese "tat,"
can have presented no very dignified appearance, for he was jerked half
out of the saddle by the concussion, and his near leg, returning to its
place, had driven his nether garment half way to his knee, while the
large felt hat was settling back on to his head at a rakish angle, and
his coat collar had gone well up the back of his neck.

"Dear uncle," said the lady as she rode up, "I hope you are not hurt?"
She was very handsome as she sat there trying not to laugh. A lithe
figure in a gray habit and a broad-brimmed hat, fair as a Swede, but
with dark eyes and heavy lashes. Just then she was showing her brilliant
teeth, ostensibly in delight at her dear uncle's escape, and her whole
expression was animated and amused. Her companion was a soldierly