“And who therefore can fight Russians at Inkermann, duke and clod alike, and side by side; never better (says the chronicler of old) than in their first battle.  I can neither fight nor fish, and on the whole agree with you:  but I think it proper to be as English as I can in the presence of an American.”

A whistle—­a creak—­a jar; and they stop at the little Whitford station, where a cicerone for the vale, far better than Claude was, made his appearance, in the person of Mark Armsworth, banker, railway director, and de facto king of Whitbury town, long since elected by universal suffrage (his own vote included) as permanent locum tenens of her gracious Majesty.

He hails Claude cheerfully from the platform, as he waddles about, with a face as of the rising sun, radiant with good fun, good humour, good deeds, good news, and good living.  His coat was scarlet once; but purple now.  His leathers and boots were doubtless clean this morning; but are now afflicted with elephantiasis, being three inches deep in solid mud, which his old groom is scraping off as fast as he can.  His cap is duntled in; his back bears fresh stains of peat; a gentle rain distils from the few angles of his person, and bedews the platform; for Mark Armsworth has “been in Whit” to-day.

All porters and guards touch their hats to him; the station-master rushes up and down frantically, shouting, “Where are those horse-boxes?  Now then, look alive!” for Mark is chairman of the line, and everybody’s friend beside; and as he stands there being scraped, he finds time to inquire after every one of the officials by turns, and after their wives, children, and sweethearts beside.

“What a fine specimen of your English squire!” says Stangrave.

“He is no squire; he is the Whitbury banker, of whom I told you.”

“Armsworth!” said Stangrave, looking at the old man with interest.

“Mark Armsworth himself.  He is acting as squire, though, now; for he has hunted the Whitford Priors ever since poor old Lavington’s death.”

“Now then—­those horse-boxes!"...

“Very sorry, sir; I telegraphed up, but we could get but one down.”

“Put the horses into that, then; and there’s an empty carriage!  Jack, put the hounds into it, and they shall all go second class, as sure as I’m chairman!”

The grinning porters hand the strange passengers in, while Mark counts the couples with his whip-point,—­

“Ravager—­Roysterer; Melody—­Gay-lass; all right.  Why, where’s that old thief of a Goodman?”

“Went over a gate as soon as he saw the couples; and wouldn’t come in at any price, sir,” says the huntsman.  “Gone home by himself, I expect.”

“Goodman, Goodman, boy!” And forthwith out of the station-room slips the noble old hound, grey-nosed, grey-eyebrowed, who has hidden, for purposes of his own, till he sees all the rest safe locked in.