“The fellow looks as if he could go on at that pace for a fortnight without turning a hair,” observed Hazlehurst, pausing to wipe his brow; “I never saw such a cast-iron animal.” “He’s at it every day, and that keeps him in good order,” replied Coverdale; “but I’ve walked him down before now, and should not wonder if I were to do so to-day--I’m just getting what the jockeys call my ‘second wind,’ and am good for the next four hours at least--ha! there’s a rabbit sitting, pull at it when I clap my hands.” “It’s too long a shot for me,” replied Hazlehurst, “bag him yourself.” Thus urged, Coverdale brought his gun to his shoulder and drew the trigger, but the cap was a bad one, and would not go off, and his second barrel being loaded with small shot, in the hope of picking up a landrail (of which Markum had reported the probable whereabouts), the rabbit skipped away uninjured. It had not proceeded ten paces, however, when it sprang into the air, and rolled over dead--at the same moment the report of a gun rang out from behind some low bushes, and a lurcher dog dashed forward, and picked up the defunct rabbit. Coverdale’s face flushed with anger, and hastily exchanging the defective percussion cap for a sound one, he raised his gun with the intention of shooting the dog; but, though quick-tempered, Harry was a thoroughly kind-hearted fellow, and a moment’s reflection caused him to relinquish his purpose; recovering his gun, he muttered-- “Poor brute, why should I kill it?--it’s not his fault, but his master’s.” As he spoke a tall figure rose from behind the bushes, whence the shot had proceeded, and whistling to the dog, took the rabbit from him, and put it in the pocket of a voluminous-skirted shooting-jacket. “That’s the redoubtable Mr. Styles, _in propriâ personâ_, I imagine,” observed Hazlehurst. “And a cool hand he seems too,” returned Coverdale, scowling at the delinquent, who stood quietly reloading his gun, as though _he_ were “monarch of all he surveyed,”--“however, I’m not going to lose my temper about it; it’s a great object with me, just now, to conciliate all the neighbouring farmers.” “Then are you going to give him _carte blanche_ to spiflicate rabbits when and where he likes?” inquired his friend. “Not a bit of it!” was the reply, “I mean to put a stop once for all to such practices; but there is a _quiet_ way of managing these matters quite as effectual as putting oneself into a rage.” “Don’t be a week about it, that’s all--come to the point at once, there’s a good fellow, for I want to knock over another rabbit or two before my Bucephalus arrives,” rejoined Hazlehurst. Thus urged, Coverdale advanced towards the stranger, and slightly raising his wide-awake as he approached him, said with an air of Grandisonian politeness--“Mr. Styles I presume?” “Yes, young man, my name’s Styles. What’s yourn?” was the unceremonious reply.