As the Midland Circuit was perhaps my favourite, although I liked them all, there would necessarily be more to interest me there than on any other, and at our little quiet dinners, for which there was no special hour (it might be any time between eight o’clock in the evening or half-past one the next day), there were always pleasant conversations and amusing stories.  With a large circle of acquaintances, I had learnt many things, sometimes to interest and sometimes to instruct.  Although I never sat down to open a school of instruction, a man should not despise the humblest teaching, or he may be deficient in many things he should have a knowledge of.

There was once an old fox-hunting squire whose ambition was to be known as a punster.  There never was a more good-natured man or a more genial host, and he would tell you of as many tremendous runs he had had as Herne the hunter.  After-dinner runs are always fine.

The Squire loved to hunt foxes and make puns.

We were sitting on a five-barred gate one evening in his paddocks, and while I was admiring the yearlings, which were of great beauty, I suddenly saw looking over his left shoulder the most beautiful head of a thoroughbred I ever beheld, with her nose quite close to his ear.

“Halloa, my beauty!” said he.  “What, Saltfish, let me see if I’ve a bit of sugar, eh, Saltfish?—­sugar—­is it?”

His hand dived into the capacious pocket of his shooting-coat and brought out a piece of sugar, which he gave to the mare, and then affectionately rubbed her nose.

“There, Saltfish—­there you are; and now show us your heels.”

I knew by his mentioning the mare’s name so often that there was a pun in it, so I waited without putting any question.  After a while he said (for he could contain his joke no longer),—­

“Judge, do you know why I call her Saltfish?”

“Not the least idea,” said I.

“Ha!” he explained, with a prodigious stare that almost shot his blue globular eyes out of his head:  “because she is such a capital mare for a fast day!  Ha, ha!”

Suddenly he stopped laughing from disappointment at my not seeing the joke.  He repeated it—­“fast day, fast day”—­then glared at me, and his underlip fell.  At last the old man tossed his head, and whipped his boot with his crop.  I have no doubt I deprived that man of a great deal of happiness; for if anything is disappointing to a punster, it is not seeing his joke.  He had not done with me yet, however, and before abandoning me as an incorrigible lunatic, asked if I would like to see Naples.

“Naples!  By all means, but not at this time of year.”

“Oh, I don’t mean the town—­no, no; but if you don’t mind a little mud, I’ll show you Naples.  Come along this lane.”

“Watercourse, you mean.  I don’t mind a little mud,” said I; “it washes off, whoever throws it”—­and I looked to see what he thought of that, knowing he would tell it at dinner.