At this juncture they ride up to The Bell and Horns, a famous halfway house, where they brew the best of ale, and can, if so disposed, give you a glass of the best whisky out of Ireland. The landlord, a sporting old veteran, bustles out and takes Tom's order for "Three pints of dog's nose" (a compound of ale and gin), "and some gruel for the nags." "Well, what sort of a day have you had?" says he. "Nay, nay, don't mind the hound, let him be," as Harry is proceeding to correct Minstrel's attack of curiosity concerning the construction of Boniface's waistcoat. "The old boy and I are friends," and he pats the hound's sensible head. Old Tom, having taken his face out of the pint pot, and smacking his lips, replies: "A first-rate day. Found in the gorse, run through Bouffler's meadows up to the Mere, turned in the lane, where the fox was headed, then over the Ring Hills, and killed by Bromley Wood. Charles here," pointing to his aide-de-camp, "was the means of our killing; and I must say Harry did uncommon well, though he does always want to be in front." At this meed of praise from their chief both the Whips feel some inches taller, and Harry quite forgets his rating in the morning. The horses gruelled and the score paid by the Huntsman, they are again on the road, having been joined by a couple of farmers going their way as far as the cross-roads, and with whom old Tom is soon in close confabulation. Harry rides for some distance without vouchsafing a word, save an occasional "Whip, get for'ard," to some straggler of the pack. At last he says: "Charles, the old man is a good 'un, and no mistake. I'd sooner have a kick from him than sixpence from anyone else. He's quite right--business is business; but when it's over how many of 'em would stand a glass, 'specially after a bit of a word?" "You're right, my lad," replies Charles. "You'll go mony a day afore you pitch on a man like old Tom, or, for the matter o' that, on a pack like our'n. Look you, it ain't every Huntsman as 'ull let his Whips into the secret of breeding; but I'll be bound there ain't a hound as you and I don't know as much about as he does hisself." "What are you two a-chattering about?" interrupts Tom. "Only a-saying as how we knowed the pedigrees, sir," said Harry. "So you ought. I'm sure I lets Charles and you know all I can. My system is 'fair do's.' Every man's got a summut to do with the run, and they're our hounds; and though I say it as perhaps shouldn't, we've the best Master and the best pack in England; and when I comes on the society, if Charles there ain't ready to take my place, why it will break my heart. Ay, my lad, and then you can get for'ard as much as you like." "I knows one thing," says Harry, whose heart is getting too big for his waistcoat, "the Bullshire have got the best Huntsman in England, or, for the matter o' that, in the world; and I'm main sorry as I vexed you to-day leaving them hounds in cover."