Not that he is what is known as a harmful liar, for he would as soon think of telling an anecdote reflecting on the character of any of his friends or acquaintances as he would of picking their pockets. No, his embroidery is strictly personal. It appertains solely to what he has done or can do, and such a habit has this become with him that he firmly believes every word he says, and will pledge his honour that such and such a thing happened, that he did this or that, the while relating some performance that effectually puts that prince of fibbers Baron Munchausen in the background. Nothing seems to cure him. Over and over again has he been caught out by a sceptical audience, who have then and there endeavoured to put him to the blush, but it has been of no avail, for two minutes afterwards he will be romancing away as gaily as ever on some fresh subject. Men have got tired of trying to break him of it, and now only sit and laugh, acknowledging that "Old Story is devilish good fun though he is such a thundering liar." Of course in the hunting-field he is the veriest impostor that ever got on a horse, never, if he can possibly help it, leaving the glorious safety of the hard highway. Yet the description of the run as told by him in the evening fairly takes your breath away, and, supposing you to be a stranger, makes you feel that you have come into a country the like of which you have never seen. Sheep-hurdles are (according to Mr. Story) five-barred gates, the smallest ditch a veritable river; and as he turns to some one or the other guest at his table and says: "Did you notice that horse I was riding to-day? Deuced clever animal, I can tell you. Jumped a double post and rails with about twelve foot of water on the far side, and made nothing of them, 'pon my honour!" you wonder whether there are many fences of the same species to be encountered, or many horses with the same supreme contempt for them to be picked up in Bullshire. Once in his life he did jump a brook, and it is even betting that before you have been long in his presence he will tell you all about it, though his version of the occurrence differs slightly from that of those who saw it. They had been having a very slow hunting-run on a cold scent, barely out of a trot most of the time, the hounds picking it out inch by inch, and at last they came to a dead lock in a field, round two-thirds of which ran the Marston brook. Mr. Story, who had been as usual very prominent in the centre of the road, which ran conveniently adjacent, thought he might as well turn into the field through the gate, which he did.