have a better."

"Two hours and two minutes," shouted the secretary, looking at his watch,
"and straight. We are in the heart of the Puckeridge country."

"Yes," said Mr. Fortescue, quietly, "it was a very enjoyable run. You like
hunting, I think?"

"Like it! I should rather think I do. I regard fox-hunting as the very
prince of sports. It is manly, health-giving, and exhilarating. There is
no sport in which so many participate and so heartily enjoy. We enjoy it,
the horses enjoy it, and the hounds enjoy it."

"How about the fox?"

"Oh, the fox! Well, the fox is allowed to exist on condition of being
occasionally hunted. If there were no hunting there would be no foxes. On
the whole, I regard him as a fortunate and rather pampered individual; and
I have even heard it said that he rather likes being hunted than
otherwise."

"As for the general question, I dare say you are right. But I don't think
the fox likes it much. It once happened to me to be hunted, and I know I
did not like it."

This was rather startling, and had Mr. Fortescue spoken less gravely and
not been so obviously in earnest, I should have thought he was joking.

"You don't mean--Was it a paper-chase?" I said, rather foolishly.