“The major looks so like a stuffed man of straw,” whispered Lady Dashfort to Lord Colambre, “and the captain so like the king of spades, putting forth one manly leg.” Count O’Halloran now turned the conversation to field sports, and then the captain and major opened at once. “Pray now, sir,” said the major, “you fox-hunt in this country, I suppose; and now do you manage the thing here as we do? Over night, you know, before the hunt, when the fox is out, stopping up the earths of the cover we mean to draw, and all the rest for four miles round. Next morning we assemble at the cover’s side, and the huntsman throws in the hounds. The gossip here is no small part of the entertainment: but as soon as we hear the hounds give tongue--” “The favourite hounds,” interposed Williamson. “The favourite hounds, to be sure,” continued Benson: “there is a dead silence till pug is well out of cover, and the whole pack well in: then cheer the hounds with tally-ho! till your lungs crack. Away he goes in gallant style, and the whole field is hard up, till pug takes a stiff country: then they who haven’t pluck lag, see no more of him, and, with a fine blazing scent, there are but few of us in at the death.” “Well, we are fairly in at the death, I hope,” said Lady Dashfort: “I was thrown out sadly at one time in the chase.” Lord Colambre, with the count’s permission, took up a book in which the count’s pencil lay, “Pasley on the Military Policy of Great Britain;” it was marked with many notes of admiration, and with hands pointing to remarkable passages. “That is a book that leaves a strong impression on the mind,” said the count. Lord Colambre read one of the marked passages, beginning with “All that distinguishes a soldier in outward appearance from a citizen is so trifling--” but at this instant our hero’s attention was distracted by seeing in a black-letter book this title of a chapter: “Burial-place of the Nugents.” “Pray now, sir,” said Captain Williamson, “if I don’t interrupt you, as you are a fisherman too; now in Ireland do you, _Mr._--” A smart pinch on his elbow from his major, who stood behind him, stopped the captain short, as he pronounced the word _Mr._ Like all awkward people, he turned directly to ask, by his looks, what was the matter. The major took advantage of his discomfiture, and, stepping before him, determined to have the fishing to himself, and went on with, “Count O’Halloran, I presume you understand fishing, too, as well as hunting?” The count bowed: “I do not presume to say that, sir.” “But pray, count, in this country, do you arm your hook this ways? Give me leave;” taking the whip from Williamson’s reluctant hand, “this ways, laying the outermost part of your feather this fashion next to your hook, and the point next to your shank, this wise, and that wise; and then, sir,--count, you take the hackle of a cock’s neck--” “A plover’s topping’s better,” said Williamson.