I was somewhat nettled at his tone, three parts jesting, and not above a quarter respectful; and I replied, wishing to return sarcasm with sarcasm— “I shall follow you, Mr. Naggett, if I want to be well with them.” Such delicate thrusts were completely thrown away upon my friend’s proof-armour of self-conceit. “You might do worse, sir,” said he, in perfect good faith. “I’m riding a real good one to-day. Go as fast as he likes, he can; and jump! He’d jump a town, if you’d put him at it! I know whose fault it will be if we get thrown out to-day. Your health, Miss Lushington. What, Ike! be the hounds come already?” The latter question was addressed to my old acquaintance, the earth-stopper, who with many a low _salaam_, and a gentlemanlike air of excusing himself, which he had acquired in his palmy days with “The Flamers,” and never completely shaken off, now sidled into the Bar. “They’re not half-a-mile behind,” said the old man; and then turned to me, with a “Beg your pardon, sir,” as if to apologise that he had addressed the other first. I accepted the implied compliment; and could do no less in return than ask the veteran “What would he have to drink?” “A little gin, if you please, sir,” replied old Ike, passing the back of his hand across his mouth. And I saw his wasted features glow and his eyes brighten, as the liquid fire descended to those regions which people who are no anatomists call the “cockles of the heart.” He was still a wonderfully tough old specimen, this earth-stopper. Last night he had been his rounds on a shaggy white pony that looked like the ghost of a horse in the dim moonlight; and to-day, having already walked half-a-dozen miles or so before breakfast, he would follow the hounds for several hours on foot, and be ready again for his work by nightfall. I saw the old man’s face brighten once more, as the door opened, and Tom Turnbull walked into the bar—not to drink anything, as I soon ascertained, but to inquire if a parcel had been left for his “Missis.” By the way, I should much like to have my curiosity satisfied as to what these parcels for farmer’s wives contain, that are continually left at houses of call. They are invariably small, limp, and a good deal crushed, wrapped in the softest of paper, and tied with the most tangled of string. Mr. Turnbull looked the picture of a sportsman—low-crowned hat, pepper-and-salt coat, Bedford cord breeches, and brown-topped boots, thick leather gloves, and a blue bird’s-eye neckcloth. “How goes it, Tom?” exclaimed a voice I recognised. “Fine dry morning, this. Won’t you liquor up?”