“Never take anything before I go hunting, thank ye, sir,” replied Tom, turning round his rosy healthy face and clear eye, presenting a marked contrast to the dissipated looks of “Jovial Jem,” for it was none other who now addressed him. The Jovial had been in London, too, during the frost, and, judging by his appearance, had been engaged in a process which he termed “keeping the game alive,” but which was likely to be rapid destruction to the sportsman. He looked as if he had been partially drunk for a fortnight and was hardly sober now, as indeed probably was the case. He was attired, nevertheless, in the most fashionable hunting costume—long scarlet coat with large sleeves, white waistcoat with an infinity of pockets, blue-satin neckcloth and turned-down collar, well-cleaned leathers and top-boots, heavy workmanlike spurs as bright as silver, and a velvet hunting-cap. A cigar in his mouth of course, and, despite a certain nervous anxiety of manner, a merry leer in his eye, or it would not have been “The Jovial.” He had driven Crafty Kate over from The Ashes, and was about to ride a steady seasoned hunter that his father had given him on Christmas-day. “Look alive!” observed this well-dressed sportsman when he had greeted me, as he considered, with sufficient politeness, by slapping me on the back, and calling me “old one.” “The Earl leaves the Green to a minute, and it’s ten-thirty now”—words which caused an immediate bustle in the bar and emptying thereof, nobody but Mr. Naggett having the politeness to wish Miss Lushington “Good-bye.” Soakington-Green, as it was called—an open space of verdure, generally too wet for cricket, and seldom boasting anything more lively than a worn-out pair of stocks and a few lean geese—was all alive when we mounted our horses and rode across its level surface. True to his character for punctuality, the Earl was already moving off, and I did but catch a glimpse of his long back and tall aristocratic figure as he jogged along amongst his hounds, in earnest conclave with Will Hawke. The pack were gathered round their huntsman’s horse, looking, as they always did, bright as pictures. Glossy in their coats, full of muscle, ribs just visible, and plenty of covering upon their backs, they stepped daintily along, with their sterns well up, and that sagacious quick-witted ready-for-anything expression which is characteristic of the fox-hound. A party of gentlemanlike-looking men from the Castle, admirably mounted, followed close upon the hounds; but my eye sought in vain amongst the troop for the well-known form in its close-fitting riding-habit, which was beginning to take up far too much of my attention. The tinge of disappointment I experienced was, however, rapidly cured by a conversation I happened to overhear between young Plumtree and a double-distilled dandy from the Castle, riding a conspicuous white horse.