The landlord of The Three Bells, that quaint old inn--with its remains of past glories, as shown by its spacious coach-stables--which stands back from the road facing the green, is doing a roaring trade; and Lizzie the barmaid says her "arms do just ache a-drawing the beer." The hounds gathered round old Tom on the green, with pink coats dotted here and there, present as pretty a picture as one could wish to see. All are in high spirits and congratulating each other and themselves on the change in the weather and the prospects of a run. Chaff is flying thick about "the old mare's big leg," or "the lucky thing the frost was for that young horse who was pulled out on all occasions;" and old Tom comes in for his share, being told that "both the hounds and himself look as if they had been doing themselves well on those non-hunting days--waistcoat buttons a bit tight, eh Tom?" and such-like banter. Presently, along the road the Major appears, in company with Mr. Boulter the Secretary, and young Earnshaw, who is learning farming--by hunting four days a-week--with Mr. Noble. "Here's Bowles," say two or three sportsmen; "he can't find much to grumble at to-day, anyhow." As he rides up they greet him with a hearty "Good-morning, Major; lovely day, isn't it?" "Lovely day? Lovely fiddlestick!" is the reply. "Up to your neck in mud. Country so heavy you can't ride, and then of all places to pick out Mickleborough! Why, the water will be out all over the bottom. But there, it's always the same. I told Lappington he ought to meet at the Kennels; but nobody ever listens to me." "Well, but Bowles," interrupts the Secretary; "we met at the Kennels the last fixture before the frost." "And you ought to meet the first day after. By Heavens, I'd meet every day there till the country was fit to ride," grumbles the Major. "Look at the hounds too. Why, Tom must have got the whole pack out, and borrowed some besides. Now I ask you, can we expect any sport with such a pack as that? 'Pon my soul the Hunt's going to the devil." "Short of work, Major; must give 'em a bit of exercise," puts in the Huntsman, as Bowles rides off to anathematise the landlord of The Three Bells, for presuming to offer him a glass of "d----d muddy home-brewed," calling, however, for a second edition of the same. By this time the Master has arrived and there is a general bustle, a tightening of girths, a shortening of stirrups, and the usual preparations for a start. The word goes round that the first draw will be Mickleborough Wood, and Tom with the hounds is already on his way there before it reaches the ear of the Major, at that moment engaged in an altercation with his servant, who, according to Bowles, has put a wrong bridle on his second horse, but, according to the man himself, has only obeyed his master's instructions.