“That’s one of the sort,” said Trimbush to me, “I was mentioning some time ago. He comes out just to show himself and have an excuse for wearing a red coat; but as for taking any interest in either the sport or us, he fears the one and knows nothing of the other. A man, from age, or other causes, may be unable to ride straight and live with us, and yet take as much pleasure in joining the meet, nicking in, and pottering on to the end of a run, as those who are in the first flight from the find to the finish; but I am certain, from what I have seen, that if a man is so naturally timid as to be afraid to ride to hounds, he can never be--in the sense of the word--a foxhunter.” “And who is he?” I asked, pointing to a thick-set and jolly-looking man in a green coat, and occupied in the act of taking up the girths of his saddle. “A very different description of sportsman,” replied Trimbush; “that’s farmer Stockdale, a tenant of the Squire’s, who has forgotten more about hounds and hunting than the majority of men ever learn. You see,” he continued, “that he’s making a careful examination of his horse, and the few alterations necessary, whilst there is plenty of time; as none but the greenhorns leave them to the last moment. I remember a man, upon one occasion, tightening a curb-chain at the moment we unkennelled our fox; and such were the impatient plunges of his horse, that he could not mount him again in time to get away with us, and he never saw an inch of the run--long and gallant as it proved.” My attention being turned to a young man superbly mounted, and dressed with the most scrupulous care, I inquired of my companion if he was one of the timid school. “No,” rejoined Trimbush; “_that_ he is not. From the delicate look of his boots, breeches and gloves, one might feel disposed to imagine that he was not in the habit of dirtying them; but so far from that being the case, he is not only the boldest but the best rider in the hunt--for the two do not always go together. It used to be thought,” continued he, “by men of the old school, that a white top was the certain mark of a he-haw, know-nothing, gal-drawing, watering-place snob; but I have no hesitation in saying that the white tops of the present day could show the dark and mahogany ones their heels without the slightest difficulty, or more than ordinary exertion.” “You think, then, that men ride bolder and better now?” I remarked.