“An’ bring the white bob full of beer—­an’ whisky, an’ water—­an’ some o’ the sloe gin; an’ devel knows how many glasses.”

Mrs. Dale and Mary, before one could look round, carried out into the yard all these light refreshments, and with them Dale regaled the large concourse of unexpected visitors that was pouring through the opened gates.  His guests were grooms, second-horsemen, one or two farmers, and several dealers—­the people who are rarely in a hurry when out hunting; and after them came pedestrians, a sturdy fellow in a red coat with a terrier in his pocket and a terrier under his arm, a keeper, a wood-cutter, Abraham Veale the hurdle-maker, and just riffraff—­the very tail of the hunt, and, as the tail of the tail, that stupid trade-neglecting Mr. Allen.  For a while the yard was full of animation, the horses pawing and snorting, Dale bustling hospitably, his wife filling the glasses and handing the food, and everybody talking who was not eating or drinking.

Mr. Allen was exhausted, tottering on his skinny legs, but nevertheless burning with ardor for the chase.

“They’ve changed foxes,” he cried breathlessly.  “They’ve lost the hunted fox, and they’ve only themselves to thank for it.  I told them, and they wouldn’t listen.  I knew.”

“Ah, but you always know,” said a second-horseman, grinning.

“If Mr. Maltby,” said Allen, “had cast back instead of forward last time I holloa’d, he’d have had the mask on his saddle rings by now.”

Then he sank down upon one of the upping-stocks, snatched a hunk of bread, munched hastily.

“Mr. Allen, you’ve no cheese.  Here, let me fill your glass again.  How’s Rodchurch?” Every time that Mavis passed, she asked a question.  “Mr. Allen, how’s Miss Waddy’s sister?”

“Dead,” said Allen, with his mouth full.

“Dead.  Oh, that’s sad!” Then next time it was:  “How’s Miss Yorke?  Not married yet?”

“No, nor likely to be.”

The horse-people soon began to move off again—­“Thank you, Mr. Dale.  Good night, Mr. Dale....  You’ve done us proper, sir....  Just what I wanted....  Good night, ma’am;”—­but the foot-people lingered.  The red-coated earth-digger, Veale, and one or two others, had got around Mr. Allen and were chaffing him irreverently.

“There, that’ll do,” said Dale, joining the group and speaking with firmness.  Then he politely offered to have a nag put into the gig and to send Mr. Allen home on wheels.

“Thank you kindly,” said Allen.  “I’m not going home; but if your man can rattle me a mile or so up towards Beacon Hill, it’s a hundred to one I shall drop in with them again.  With the wind where it is, hounds are bound to push anything that’s in front of them up to the high ground.”

As soon as Dale went to order his gig the clumsy facetiousness was renewed.

“’Tes a pity you ben’t a hound yersel, Mr. Allen.”

“Ah,” said Veale, “if the wood pucks cud transform him on to all fours, what a farder he’d mek to th’ next litter o’ pops at the Kennels.”