whaler. True, the pay did not amount to much, but it found me in
pocket-money and clothes, and I saved my keep.

Having now, as I hope, done with digressions and placed myself _en
rapport_ with my readers, I will return to the principal personage of my
story.

The next time I met Mr. Fortescue was at Harlow Bush. He was quite as well
mounted as before, and accompanied, as usual, by Rawlings and two grooms
with their second horses. On this occasion Mr. Fortescue did not hold
himself nearly so much aloof as he had done at Matching Green, perhaps
because he was more noticed; and he was doubtless more noticed because the
fame of his wealth and the lavish use he made of it were becoming more
widely known. The master gave him a friendly nod and a gracious smile, and
expressed a hope that we should have good sport; the secretary engaged him
in a lively conversation; the hunt servants touched their caps to him with
profound respect, and he received greetings from most of the swells.

We drew Latton, found in a few minutes, and had a "real good thing," a
grand run of nearly two hours, with only one or two trifling checks,
which, as I am not writing a hunting story, I need not describe any
further than to remark that we had plenty of fencing, a good deal of hard
galloping, a kill in the open, and that of the sixty or seventy who were
present at the start only about a score were up at the finish. Among the
fortunate few were Mr. Fortescue and his pilot. During the latter part of
the run we rode side by side, and pulled up at the same instant, just as
the fox was rolled over.

"A very fine run," I took the liberty to observe, as I stepped from my
saddle and slackened my horse's girths. "It will be a long time before we