Before Lord Ploversdale, Master of Fox-hounds, reached the road, he began waving his whip. He appeared excited. “What do you mean by riding upon my hounds?” he shouted. He said this in several ways with various accompanying phrases, but neither the Indians nor Grady seemed to notice him. It occurred to Mr. Carteret that, although Lord Ploversdale’s power of expression was wonderful for England, it nevertheless fell short of Arizona standards. Then, however, he noticed that Grady was absorbed in adjusting a kodak camera, with which he was evidently about to take a picture of the Indians alone with the hounds. He drew back in order both to avoid being in the field of the picture and to avoid too close proximity with Lord Ploversdale as he came over the fence into the road. “What do you mean, sir!” shouted the enraged Master of Fox-hounds, as he pulled up his horse. “A little more in the middle,” replied Grady, still absorbed in taking the picture. [Illustration: “A little more in the middle”] Lord Ploversdale hesitated. He was speechless with surprise for the moment. Grady pressed the button and began putting up the machine. “What do you mean by riding on my hounds, you and these persons?” demanded Lord Ploversdale. “We didn’t,” said Grady amicably, “but if your bunch of dogs don’t know enough to keep out of the way of a horse, they ought to learn.” Lord Ploversdale looked aghast and Smith, the huntsman, pinched himself to make sure that he was not dreaming. “Many thanks for your advice,” said Lord Ploversdale. “May I inquire who you and your friends may be?” “I’m James Grady,” said that gentleman. “This,” he said, pointing to the Indian nearest, “is Chief Hole-in-the-Ground of the Olgallala Sioux. Him in the middle is Mr. Jim Snake, and the one beyond is Chief Skytail, a Pawnee.” “Thank you, that is very interesting,” said Lord Ploversdale, with polite irony. “Now will you kindly take them home?” “See here,” said Grady, strapping the camera to his saddle, “I was invited to this hunt, regular, and if you hand me out any more hostile talk--” He paused. “Who invited you?” inquired Lord Ploversdale. “One of your own bunch,” said Grady, “Lord Frederic Westcote. I’m no butterin.” “Your language is difficult to understand,” said Lord Ploversdale. “Where is Lord Frederic Westcote?” Mr. Carteret had watched the field approaching as fast as whip and spur could drive them, and in the first flight he noticed Lord Frederic and the Major. For this reason he still hesitated about thrusting himself into the discussion. It seemed that the interference of a third party could only complicate matters, inasmuch as Lord Frederic would so soon be upon the spot. Lord Ploversdale looked across the field impatiently. “I’ve no doubt, my good fellow, that Lord Frederic Westcote brought you here and I’ll see him about it, but kindly take these fellows home. They’ll kill all my hounds.”