No introduction from a mutual friend is equal to that of a cigar. Any two votaries of the “pleasant vice,” at least during the time they are engaged in its practice, are sure to fraternise, and in five minutes Mr. Sawyer and the Honourable Crasher were hard at it, I need scarcely observe, on the subject of fox-hunting; the former resolving, as far as possible, to pick the brains of his new acquaintance (if he could find them) on that exhaustless topic; the latter positively warming into a languid enthusiasm on the only subject to which he could direct his whole attention for ten consecutive minutes. Racing men are bad enough. Politicians are sufficiently long-winded. A couple of agriculturists will keep the ball rolling pretty perseveringly on the congenial themes of “cake,” mangold wurzel, short-horns, reaping-machines, and guano; but I have heard ladies, who are perhaps the best judges of volubility, affirm that, for energy, duration, and the faculty of saying the same thing over and over again, a dialogue between a couple of fox-hunters beats every other kind of discussion completely out of the field. Mr. Sawyer took the initiative by pointing to the fox’s tusk which fastened the string in his new friend’s hat. “Done anything this last week?” said he, with that mysterious air specially affected by all individuals who are connected, however remotely, with horseflesh, and which, I believe, has much to answer for, in the impression of consummate roguery which it conveys to the uninitiated. “It’s been good scenting weather in my part of the world. Hounds must have run hard on the grass.” The Honourable Crasher emitted a large volume of smoke, ere he roused himself for the effort, and replied: “Good thing, last Friday, with the Pytchley, from Fox Hall. Do you know that country?” he added, thinking, if his listener did _not_, he might save himself the trouble of detailing it. “I am on my way down to hunt there now,” rejoined our friend, “so I take an interest, naturally, in your sport. Last Friday, you say? Ah! that was the day we had such a fine run over _our_ country. Two hours and forty-seven minutes, and killed our fox—_and killed our fox_,” he repeated, as if such a climax was sufficiently rare to merit more than common attention. Nothing but the spirit of emulation between different packs could have embarked the Honourable Crasher on a long story; but he woke up from his lethargy at this juncture, and observed, “Two hours and forty-seven minutes? Indeed! It must have been a fine run; but slow, I conclude—slow. I never care much for anything over an hour. It’s labour and sorrow, _walking_ after hounds, to _my_ mind.”