rsational triumph; for he had left off answering monosyllabically,
had volunteered an observation or two, and even ventured to banter his
companions about their not availing themselves sufficiently of the
sporting resources in the neighborhood.

"There are several boars near here," he was saying; "they shoot them
sometimes, and you can go if you manage properly. I wonder you men never
found that out."

"Ah! they _did_ talk a good deal about pigs," Royston remarked
indifferently. "But, you see, we used to stick them in the Deccan. The
first time I heard of their way of doing it here, I felt very like
Deering when they asked him to shoot a fox in Scotland. Tom Deering, you
know, the old boy that has hunted with the Warwickshire and Atherstone
for thirty seasons, and could tell you the names, ages, and colors of
the hounds better than he could those of his own small
family--pedigrees, too, I shouldn't wonder."

Dick tried to look as if he had known the man from his childhood, and
succeeded but very moderately.

"Well," the other went on, "they were beating a cover for roe, and the
gillie suggested a particular pass, as the most likely to get a shot at
what he called a 'tod.' It was some time before Tom realized the full
horror of the proposition: when he did, he shut his eyes like a bull
that is going to charge, and literally _fell_ upon the duinhe-wassel,
bellowing savagely. He had no more idea of using his hands than a
fractious baby; but it is rather a serious thing when sixteen stone of
solid flesh becomes possessed by a devil. Robin Oig was overborne by the
onset, and did not forget the effects of it that season."

Tresilyan laughed applaudingly, as he always did when he could
understand more than half a story.

"I suppose it's pretty good fun hunting them out there?" he said, going
off at score, as usual, on the fresh theme.

"Not bad," Keene replied; "sharp going while it lasts, and a little
knack wanted to stick them scientifically. Some say it's more exciting
than fox-hunting, but that's childish; I never heard a man assert it
whose liver was not on the wane. It's more dangerous, certainly. A
header into the Smite or the Whissendine is nothing to a fall backward
into a nullah, with a beaten horse on the top of you."

Molyneux woke up from a reverie. The familiar word stirred his blood
like a trumpet, and it flashed up brightly in his pale cheek as he
spoke. "Ah! we have had a brushing gallop or two in the