But on the present occasion we will not presume that our friend
has fallen into so deep a bathos of misfortune. At twelve o'clock
Tom appears, with the hounds following slowly at his heels; and a
dozen men, angry with impatience, fly at him with assurances that
there has been no sign of frost since ten o'clock. " Ain't there
?" says Tom; " you look at the north sides of the banks, and see
how you'd like it." Some one makes an uncivil remark as to the
north sides of the banks, and wants to know when old Jorrocks is
coming. " The squire 'll be here time enough," says Tom. And then
there takes place that slow walking up and down of the hounds,
which on such mornings always continues for half an hour. Let him
who envies the condition of the man who hunts and likes it,
remember that a cold thaw is going on, that our friend is already
sulky with waiting, that to ride up and down for an hour and a
half at a walking pace on such a morning is not an exhilarating
pastime, and he will understand that the hunting man himself may
have doubts as to the wisdom of his course of action.

But at last Jorrocks is there, and the hounds trot off to cover.
So dull has been everything on this morning that even that is
something, and men begin to make themselves happier in the warmth
of the movement. The hounds go into covert, and a period of
excitement is commenced. Our friend who likes hunting remarks to
his neighbour that the ground is rideable. His neighbour who
doesn't like it quite so well says that he doesn't know. They
remain standing close together on a forest ride for twenty
minutes, but conversation doesn't go beyond that. The man who
doesn't like it has lit a cigar, but the man who does like it
never lights a cigar when hounds are drawing.