The short sketches of those in immediate authority would still be incomplete if Old Mark the Feeder was allowed to escape observation. Whether he possessed a surname is a subject known only to himself; for nobody ever heard him spoken of, or to, but as “Old Mark.” From infancy he had been employed in the kennel, and owed his want of promotion to a nervous inability to become a horseman. No exertions on his own part, or those of others, could render him anything like competent to ride to hounds; and the result was that, after a long and patient trial to obtain this necessary accomplishment for a whipper-in, Mark was compelled to abandon the design, and to fall back on his former position. After this, no second attempt was made; and so years and years rolled on, and at length discovered the failure of a whipper-in in Old Mark the feeder. As may be supposed from his long experience, no one knew more about us than he did; and the moment his practised eye fell on a hound, he could instantly tell a defective point, let it be never so trifling. Proud and enthusiastic in his calling, the courts and lodging-houses were always clean, dry, and wholesome; and, late or early, the old man never allowed the most insignificant part of his duties to pass unfinished. The feet of each were carefully examined after returning home, and if foot-sore, washed with bran, warm water, and vinegar. A warm bath, too was also in readiness, and plenty of clean straw to roll in for the purpose of drying. Little can be said of Mark’s outward man; for his back was crooked--perchance from continually bending over the troughs and copper--and his legs were lean and long, like a daddy-long-legs; but one of the best attributes of human nature sat reflected in his mild, open, honest face; and that was gentle kindness of heart. Oh! if the world was more thickly populated with “Old Marks,” how many hearts and hides would cease to throb with anguish! CHAPTER IV. “In the barn the tenant-cock, Close to partlet, perched on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd’s clock), Jocund, that the morning’s nigh.” With a yawn, a stretch, and a shake, Trimbush completed his toilet one misty morning, just as a neighbouring cock had thrice thrown his chivalrous challenge on the breeze, and invited me, with a crack of his stern across my muzzle, to follow his early example of industry. “Come,” said he, “it’s time to be awake and stirring. How do ye fare?” “Hearty and hungry,” replied I, reluctantly arousing myself from a dream of enjoyment. “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Trimbush. “You’ll have to wait, then,” continued he, “till sunset for a meal, unless you earn a share for yourself.” “How so?” inquired I.