it was a delightful hour at about seven P.M.--dinner just concluded,
the chairs brought before the fire, cigars and the said mulled port.
Eight o'clock was the hour for bed, and five in the morning to rise, at
which time a cup of hot tea, and a slice of toast and anchovy paste were
always ready before the start. The great man of our establishment was
the cook.

This knight of the gridiron was a famous fellow, and could perform
wonders; of stoical countenance, he was never seen to smile. His whole
thoughts were concentrated in the mysteries of gravies, and the magic
transformation of one animal into another by the art of cookery; in this
he excelled to a marvellous degree. The farce of ordering dinner was
always absurd. It was something in this style: 'Cook!' (Cook answers)
'Coming, sar!' (enter cook): ' Now, cook, you make a good dinner; do you
hear?' Cook: `Yes, sar; master tell, I make.'--`Well, mulligatawny
soup.' 'Yes, sar.'--'Calves' head with tongue and brain sauce.' 'Yes,
sar.'--' Gravy omelette.' 'Yes, sar.'--'Mutton chops.' 'Yes,
sar.'--'Fowl cotelets.' `Yes, sar.'--'Beefsteaks.' 'Yes, sar.'--'Marrow-
bones.' 'Yes, sar.'--'Rissoles.' 'Yes, sar.' All these various dishes he
literally imitated uncommonly well, the different portions of an elk
being their only foundation.

The kennel bench was comfortably littered, and the pack took possession
of their new abode with the usual amount of growling and quarrelling for
places; the angry grumbling continuing throughout the night between the
three champions of the kennel--Smut, Bran, and Killbuck. After a night
much disturbed by this constant quarrelling, we unkennelled the hounds
just as the first grey streak of dawn spread above Totapella Peak.

The mist was hanging heavily on the lower parts of the plain like a