set of sportsmen. When a stranger falls thus as it were out of the
moon into a hunt, it is impossible that men should not stare at him
and ask who he is. And it is so disagreeable to be stared at, and to
have such questions asked! This feeling does not come upon a man in
Leicestershire or Gloucestershire where the numbers are large, and a
stranger or two will always be overlooked, but in small hunting
fields it is so painful that a man has to pluck up much courage
before he encounters it.

We met on the morning in question at Bingham's Grove. There were not
above twelve or fifteen men out, all of whom, or nearly all were
cousins to each other. They seemed to be all Toms, and Pats, and
Larrys, and Micks. I was done up very knowingly in pink, and thought
that I looked quite the thing, but for two or three hours nobody
noticed me.

I had my eyes about me, however, and soon found out which of them was
Tom O'Conor. He was a fine-looking fellow, thin and tall, but not
largely made, with a piercing gray eye, and a beautiful voice for
speaking to a hound. He had two sons there also, short, slight
fellows, but exquisite horsemen. I already felt that I had a kind of
acquaintance with the father, but I hardly knew on what ground to put
in my claim.

We had no sport early in the morning. It was a cold bleak February
day, with occasional storms of sleet. We rode from cover to cover,
but all in vain. "I am sorry, sir, that we are to have such a bad
day, as you are a stranger here," said one gentleman to me. This was
Jack O'Conor, Tom's eldest son, my bosom friend for many a year
after. Poor Jack! I fear that the Encumbered Estates Court sent him