Up he goes to Mark, and begins wriggling against his knees, and looking up as only dogs can.  “Oh, want to go first-class with me, eh?  Jump in, then!” And in jumps the hound, and Mark struggles after him.

“Hillo, sir!  Come out!  Here are your betters here before you,” as he sees Stangrave, and a fat old lady in the opposite corner.

“Oh, no; let the dog stay!” says Stangrave.

“I shall wet you, sir, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, no.”

And Mark settles himself, puffing, with the hound’s head on his knees, and begins talking fast and loud.

“Well, Mr. Mellot, you’re a stranger here.  Haven’t seen you since poor Miss Honour died.  Ah, sweet angel she was!  Thought my Mary would never get over it.  She’s just such another, though I say it, barring the beauty.  Goodman, boy!  You recollect old Goodman, son of Galloper, that the old squire gave our old squire?”

Claude, of course, knows—­as all do who know those parts—­who The Old Squire is; long may he live, patriarch of the chase!  The genealogy he does not.

“Ah, well—­Miss Honour took to the pup, and used to walk him out; and a prince of a hound he is; so now he’s old we let him have his own way, for her sake; and nobody’ll ever bully you, will they, Goodman, my boy?”

“I want to introduce you to a friend of mine.”

“Proud to know any friend of yours, sir.”

“Mr. Stangrave—­Mr. Armsworth.  Mr. Stangrave is an American gentleman, who is anxious to see Whitbury and the neighbourhood.”

“Well, I shall be happy to show it him, then—­can’t have a better guide, though I say it—­know everything by this time, and everybody, man, woman, and child, as I hope Mr. Stangrave’ll find when he gets to know old Mark.”

“You must not speak of getting to know you, my dear sir; I know you intimately already, I assure you; and more, am under very deep obligations to you, which, I regret to say, I can only repay by thanks.”

“Obligation to me, my dear sir?”

“Indeed I am:  I will tell you all when we are alone.”  And Stangrave glanced at the fat old woman, who seemed to be listening intently.

“Oh, never mind her,” says Armsworth; “deaf as a post:  very good woman, but so deaf—­ought to speak to her, though”—­and, reaching across, to the infinite amusement of his companions, he roared in the fat woman’s face, with a voice as of a speaking-trumpet—­“Glad to see you, Mrs. Grove!  Got those dividends ready for you next time you come into town.”

“Yah!” screamed the hapless woman, who (as the rest saw) heard perfectly well.  “What do you mean, frightening a lady in that way?  Deaf, indeed!”

“Why,” roared Mark again, “ain’t you Mrs. Grove, of Drytown Dirtywater?”

“No, nor no acquaintance!  What business is it of your’n, sir, to go hollering in ladies’ faces at your age?”

“Well:—­but I’ll swear if you ain’t her, you’re somebody else.  I know you as well as the town clock”