the shape of Ruby, carefully rolling on a dead crow), and then, under
the lee of a high bank, he came upon Patsey Crimmeen, the farmers, and
the country boys, absorbed in the contemplation of a fight between
Tiger, the butcher's brindled cur, and Watty, the kennel terrier.

The manner in which Mr. Alexander dispersed this entertainment showed
that he was already equipped with one important qualification of a
Master of Hounds--a temper laid on like gas, ready to blaze at a
moment's notice. He pitched himself off his horse and scrambled over the
bank into the covert in search of his hounds. He pushed his way through
briars and furze-bushes, and suddenly, near the middle of the wood, he
caught sight of them. They were in a small group, they were very quiet
and very busy. As a matter of fact they were engaged in eating a dead
sheep.

After this episode, there ensued a long and disconsolate period of
wandering from one bleak hillside to another, at the bidding of various
informants, in search of apocryphal foxes, slaughterers of flocks of
equally apocryphal geese and turkeys--such a day as is discreetly
ignored in all hunting annals, and, like the easterly wind that is its
parent, is neither good for man nor beast.

By half-past three hope had died, even in the sanguine bosoms of the
Master and Mr. Taylour. Two of the farmers had disappeared, and the lady
bicyclists, with faces lavender blue from waiting at various windy cross
roads, had long since fled away to lunch. Two of the hounds were
limping; all, judging by their expressions, were on the verge of tears.
Patsey's black mare had lost two shoes; Mr. Taylour's pony had ceased to
pull, and was too dispirited even to try to kick the hounds, and the
country boys had dwindled to four. There had come a time when Mr.