“He ought to be,” replied my host, filling himself another bumper of port. “He was regularly bred for it, and entered to it, if ever man was. When he was a little chap, not three feet high, he used to help his father, who was feeder at the kennels. And I remember well the dowager Countess telling me that he knew the name of every hound in the pack long before he could answer one of the questions at her Sunday school. He used to ride the horses, too, at exercise; and being a smart little fellow, soon picked up all that was to be learned in the stable and elsewhere. One day, when he was quite a lad, and the hounds met at the kennel, as they often did, the first-whip was suddenly taken ill, and unable to get upon his horse; the other man was forty miles away, getting back some young hounds from walk. Will petitioned sorely to be put on a steady nag, and allowed to take the invalid’s place; and, as he was the only person who knew the hounds by name, he was permitted to do so. We were all amused at the excitement and ambitious airs of the young neophyte, who bustled about the rides of the covert, and “sang out” to any transgressing hound in most approved form. Old Craner, who was huntsman then, was perfectly delighted with the quickness and sagacity of the young one. At last we crossed the Swimley with a cold scent, and the hounds took to running on the opposite side of the river. Craner, who was an old man, besides having an excellent situation, and not caring to risk it, voted this all wrong, and expressed a wish to stop them. Young Hawke had swum his horse halfway across before the words were out of his senior’s mouth; and although he did not stop them, the young rascal!—for the scent improved immensely, and they took to running forthwith,—he elected himself into the post of huntsman for the occasion, and killed his fox in masterly style after a good hunting run. He was made second whip at the first opportunity, and has been in the establishment ever since. It’s a good many years ago that I’m speaking of, Mr. Softly; and the present Earl thinks he’s getting slow; but I’ll back old Will to find his fox, and hunt his fox, and kill his fox, as handsomely as any of the young ones still.” “They all say he overdoes the letting-alone system,” observed the Jovial, with a sly glance at me. “I’ve seen him lose more than one fox on a bad-scenting day, because he wouldn’t go to a holloa, not even if it was given by Tom Crow himself, whom he ought to be able to depend upon.”