past. One of the documents was sent to the Major
with an intimation that if he wished to attend no objection would be
made to his presence. The chair would be taken at half-past twelve
punctually by that popular and well-known old sportsman Mr. Mahogany
Topps.

Was ever the Master of a hunt treated in such a way! His presence not
objected to! As a rule the Master of a hunt does not attend hunt
meetings, because the matter to be discussed is generally that of the
money to be subscribed for him, as to which it is as well he should
not hear the pros and cons. But it is presumed that he is to be the
hero of the hour, and that he is to be treated to his face, and
spoken of behind his back, with love, admiration, and respect. But
now this Master was told his presence would be allowed! And then
this fox-hunting meeting was summoned for half-past twelve on a
hunting-day;--when, as all the world knew, the hounds were to meet at
eleven, twelve miles off! Was ever anything so base? said the Major
to himself. But he resolved that he would be equal to the occasion.
He immediately issued cards to all the members, stating that on that
day the meet had been changed from Croppingham Bushes, which was ever
so much on the other side of Bagshot, to The Bobtailed Fox,--for the
benefit of the hunt at large, said the card,--and that the hounds
would be there at half-past one.

Whatever might happen, he must show a spirit. In all this there were
one or two of the London brigade who stood fast to him. "Cock your
tail, Tifto," said one hard-riding supporter, "and show 'em you
aren't afraid of nothing." So Tifto cocked his tail and went to the
meeting in his best new scarlet coat, with his whitest breeches, his
pinkest boots, and his neatest little bows at his knees. He entered
the room with his horn in his hand, as a symbol of authority, and
took off his hunting-cap to salute the assembly with a jaunty air. He
had taken two glasses of cherry brandy, and as long as the stimulant
lasted would no doubt be able to support himself with audacity.

Old Mr. Topps, in rising from his chair, did not say very much. He
had been hunting in the Runnymede country for nearly fifty years, and
had never seen anything so sad as this before. It made him, he knew,
very unhappy. As for foxes, there were always plenty of foxes in his
coverts. His friend Mr. Jawstock, on the right, would explain what
all this was about. All he wanted was to see the Runnymede hunt