"I daresay I am," answered the Hare, rubbing its nose; "but please
observe that I am not speaking unkindly of Grampus, although before I
have done you may think that I might have reason to do so. However, you
will be able to form your own opinion when he comes here, which I am
sure he does not mean to do for many, many years. The world is much too
comfortable for him. He does not wish to leave it."

"Still he may be obliged to do so, Hare."

"Oh! no, people like that are never obliged to do anything they do not
like. It is only poor things such as you and I, Mahatma, which must
suffer. I can see that you have had a great deal to bear, and so have
I, for we were born to suffering as the Red-faced Man was born to
happiness."

"Go on with your story, Hare," I repeated. "You are becoming
metaphysical and therefore dull. The time is short and I want to hear
what happened."

"Quite so, Mahatma. Well, Grampus came up breathing very heavily and
looking very red in the face. He held his hat in one hand and a large
crooked stick in the other, and even the top of his head, on which no
hair grew, was red, for he had been running.

"What the deuce is the matter?" he puffed. "Oh! it is you, Giles, is it?
What are you doing, sir, looking like that, all covered with blood and
mud? Has a poacher shot you, or what?"

"No, Squire," answered Giles humbly, touching his hat. "I have shot a
poacher, that's all, and it has given me what for," and he lifted the