Last season things very nearly came to a climax, for after drawing Mr. Betteridge's coverts blank three times running, Sir John vowed he would not come there again. Mr. James was most profuse in his apologies, and his astonishment was grand. "I'm sure," said he, "I can't imagine where them foxes has got to. Bill saw two in the big wood last night, and I've been most pertickerler about it. Bill tells me as he knows of another in the Cross Spinney. Didn't yer, Bill? Where's Bill?" (That worthy having carefully slipped out of sight on the first signs of a cross-examination.) "Ah! 'e's never here when he's wanted," continued the great man. "Tom, I'm thinking you must have drawed over 'em." "More than I'm thinking you've done," returned old Tom; adding, _sotto voce_, "nasty deceitful beggar." "Well, Mr. Betteridge," said Sir John after a pause, and with his eye fixed on "Mr. James," "it's a great pity, but I think I must be to blame to a certain extent. I ought to have brought out some different hounds. I must get some truffle-dogs if I come here again. It seems our only chance of finding foxes, and I daresay your Keeper is right and we have drawn over them." The shouts of laughter that followed this speech made it clear to both master and man that there was some sarcasm, but neither of them could make out quite what it was--until the evening, when Mr. James, happening to meet the village schoolmaster, asked him what Sir John meant by truffle-dogs, and was informed that they were a peculiar breed that found things underground. The joke went round the village in a trice, and Mr. James is still known as "Truffles," though it is not quite safe to call him so to his face. For more than half the season the Master kept his word, and the hounds never came near Medemere. But at last a piteous appeal from Mr. Betteridge is listened to, and "Monday, Medemere Hall," appears in the paper. Such a turn-out! A breakfast, more than half of it down from Gunter's; powdered footmen rushing about in everybody's way; footmen out of powder doing the same thing; a butler, whose busy appearance is worth a hundred a-year to him, superintending the champagne, which flowed freely; and over all Mr. Betteridge, flushed, excited, and uncomfortable. Outside is the same profusion, and Mr. James and his army of retainers dispense good cheer with a liberal hand. No fear has he to-day, for Bill has actual and _bonâ-fide_ knowledge of a fox in the osiers, and to make quite certain, a small box from Leadenhall Market came down two days before, and the contents have been shaken out in the big wood. Under the circumstances he can afford to pass by Tom's remark of "Hope you haven't stopped no foxes in to-day" in silence, merely saying: "I think we had better draw our Osiers first, if Sir John is agreeable. I have told Mr. Betteridge that would be the first draw."