They had been running hard one day last season, and were getting on terms with their fox, when, just as they approached the Swill (a deep muddy brook, to jump which when low was a thing to talk of, and when full almost an impossibility), a fresh fox jumped up right in the centre of the pack, and took half of them over the stream, which was bank full. To stop them was a necessity, and there was no bridge nearer than half a mile. Harry, without waiting a minute, pulled his nag together, and shouting: "Here's in or over. I canna swim; but I've naught to leave 'cept my togs, and the're master's," rode at it, and, to the astonishment of everybody, in another second was safe across and had stopped the hounds on the far side. How he got over is a mystery to this day, and no one was so astonished as himself. If you ask him he will tell you "he only knew hounds had to be stopped, and if he had gone under he could not have helped it. He trusted to luck and his spurs, and they pulled him through." It is small wonder that everything works like clockwork when Master, Huntsman, and Whips all act in concert and harmony, and Charles and Harry know full well the value of their situations. After the horses are done up for the night, and the hounds are seen to, fed, warm and comfortable on their benches, the two will as like as not go up and smoke a pipe at old Tom's cottage before turning in; and the knowledge they gain in those "evenings at home" is untold, for, as Charles said, the old man keeps nothing back, and is never so pleased as when he is giving his Whips the benefit of his long experience. Should the frost set in, the Master will be down at the kennels in the morning for a certainty, and two or three instructive hours will be passed in talk of horse and hounds. THE SECRETARY. A man of immense importance is Mr. J. Boulter of The Grange, quite as essential to the welfare of the Bullshire Hunt as either Master or servants; and, indeed, if you could see through the double-breasted pink, the corduroy waistcoat, and the gray flannel beneath, into his innermost heart, you would, I am almost convinced, find that Mr. B. was there written down as the man of the lot. No light task is his, namely that of professional beggar. For he is Secretary and Treasurer to the Hunt, and on him falls the onus of collecting as well as receiving subscriptions. Long practice has made him an adept in the art of "cornering" a defaulter, for he has been in office for fifteen years, and it is his boast that if a pound is to be got he is the man to get it. On one occasion he was sorely put about by a man (I was going to say a gentleman, but his conduct precludes the use of the term), who came down from town and established himself in the country, bringing with him a large stud of hunters. Naturally the Secretary fixed his eagle eye on so promising a subject, and after a month or so began to hint at a subscription, which of course was promised but never came.