Perhaps the most amusing phase of him was his opposition to and contempt for inefficiency of any kind.  If he asked you to do anything, no matter what, and you didn’t at once leap to the task ready and willing and able so to do, he scarcely had words enough with which to express himself.  On one occasion, as I recall all too well, he took us for a drive in his tally-ho—­one or two or three that he possessed—­a great lumbering, highly lacquered, yellow-wheeled vehicle, to which he attached seven or eight or nine horses, I forget which.  This tally-ho ride was a regular Sunday morning or afternoon affair unless it was raining, a call suddenly sounding from about the grounds somewhere at eleven or at two in the afternoon, “Tally-ho at eleven-thirty” (or two-thirty, as the case might be).  “All aboard!” Gathering all the reins in his hands and perching himself in the high seat above, with perhaps one of his guests beside him, all the rest crowded willy-nilly on the seats within and on top, he would carry us off, careening about the countryside most madly, several of his hostlers acting as liveried footmen or outriders and one of them perched up behind on the little seat, the technical name of which I have forgotten, waving and blowing the long silver trumpet, the regulation blasts on which had to be exactly as made and provided for such occasions.  Often, having been given no warning as to just when it was to be, there would be a mad scramble to get into our de rigueur Sunday clothes, for Culhane would not endure any flaws in our appearance, and if we were not ready and waiting when one of his stablemen swung the vehicle up to the door at the appointed time he was absolutely furious.

On the particular occasion I have in mind we all clambered on in good time, all spick and span and in our very best, shaved, powdered, hands appropriately gloved, our whiskers curled and parted, our shoes shined, our hats brushed; and up in front was Culhane, gentleman de luxe for the occasion, his long-tailed whip looped exactly as it should be, no doubt, ready to be flicked out over the farthest horse’s head, and up behind was the trumpeter—­high hat, yellow-topped boots, a uniform of some grand color, I forget which.

But, as it turned out on this occasion, there had been a hitch at the last minute.  The regular hostler or stableman who acted as footman extraordinary and trumpeter plenipotentiary, the one who could truly and ably blow this magnificent horn, was sick or his mother was dead.  At any rate, there he wasn’t.  And in order not to irritate Culhane, a second hostler had been dressed and given his seat and horn—­only he couldn’t blow it.  As we began to clamber in I heard him asking, “Can any of you gentleman blow the trumpet?  Do any of you gentleman know the regular trumpet call?”