hat is not so convenient to support in the country as it is in
town. The borough of Swillingford, as we have already intimated, was not
the best conducted borough in the world; indeed, when we say that the
principal trade of the place was poaching, our country readers will be able
to form a very accurate opinion on that head. When Puff took possession of
Hanby there was a fair show of pheasants about the house, and a good
sprinkling of hares and partridges over the estate and manor generally; but
refusing to prosecute the first poachers that were caught, the rest took
the hint, and cleared everything off in a week, dividing the plunder among
them. They also burnt his river and bagged his fine Dorking fowls, and all
these feats being accomplished with impunity, they turned their attention
to his fat sheep.

'Poacher' is only a mild term for 'thief.'

Puff was a perfect milch-cow in the way of generosity. He gave to
everything and everybody, and did not seem to be acquainted with any
smaller sum than a five-pound note; a five-pound note to replace Giles
Jolter's cart-horse (that used to carry his own game for the poachers to
the poulterers at Plunderstone)--five pounds to buy Dame Doubletongue
another pig, though she had only just given three pounds for the one that
died--five pounds towards the fire at farmer Scratchley's, though it had
taken place two years before Puff came into the country, and Scratchley had
been living upon it ever since--and sundry other five pounds to other
equally deserving and amiable people. He put his name down for fifty to the
Mangeysterne hounds without ever being asked; which reminds us that we
ought to be directing our attention to that noble establishment.

It is hard to have to go behind the scenes of an ill-supported hunt, and we
will be as brief and tender with the cripples as we can. The Mangeysterne
hounds wanted that great ingredient of prosperity, a large nest-egg
subscriber, to whom all others could be tributary--paying or not as might
be convenient. The consequence was they were always up the spout. They were
neither a scratch pack nor a regular pack, but something betwixt and
between. They were hunted by a saddler, who found his own horses, and
sometimes he had a whip and sometimes he hadn't. The establishment died as
often as old Mantalini himself. Every season that came to a close was
proclaimed to be their last, but somehow or other they always managed to
scramble into existe