to tell truth was comparatively easy in one who was as careless of all opinion as he was independent in means; moreover, that a love of truth is sometimes found to exist in very bad company, as in the case of the Spartan boy who stole the fox, and if the veracious Squire did not steal foxes (which he did, by-the-by, indirectly, for a bagged one was his delight), he was guilty of much worse things.  However, this is certain, that Carew of Crompton never told a lie.

CHAPTER II.

Waiting for an introduction.

We have said that Carew was not exclusive; so long as he had his own way in every thing he was good-tempered, and so very good-natured that he permitted not only his friends but his dependents to do pretty much as they would.  He was a tyrant only by fits and starts, and in the mean time there was anarchy at Crompton.  Every soul in the place, from the young lords, its master’s guests, down to the earth-stopper’s assistant, who came for his quantum of ale to the back-door, did pretty much as seemed right in his own eyes.  There were times when every thing had to be done in a moment under the master’s eye, no matter at what loss, or even risk to limb or life; but usually there was no particular time for any thing—­except dinner.  The guests arose in the morning, or lay in bed all day, exactly as they pleased, and had their meals in public or in their own rooms; but when the great dinner-gong sounded for the second time it was expected that every man should be ready for the feast, and wearing (with the single exception of the chaplain) a red coat.  The dinner-parties at Crompton—­and there was a party of the most heterogeneous description daily—­were literally, therefore, very gay affairs; the banquet was sumptuous, and the great cellars were laid under heavy contribution.  Only, if a guest did happen to be unpunctual, from whatever cause, even if it were illness, the host would send for his bear, or his half-dozen bull-dogs, and proceed to the sick man’s room, with the avowed intention (and he always kept his word) of “drawing the badger.”  In spite of his four-legged auxiliaries, this was not always an easy task.  His recklessness, though not often, did sometimes meet with its match in that of the badger; and in one chamber door at Crompton we have ourselves seen a couple of bullet-holes, which showed that assault on one side had met with battery upon the other.  With such rough manners as Carew had, it may seem strange that he was never called to account for them at twelve paces; but, in the first place, it was thoroughly understood that he would have “gone out” (a fact which has doubtless given pause to many a challenge), and would have shot as straight as though he were partridge-shooting; and secondly, as we have said, he had a special license for practical jokes; the subjects of them, too, were not men of delicate susceptibilities, for none such,