Great was the joy diffused throughout the Mangeysterne country when it transpired, through the medium of his valet, Louis Bergamotte, that ’his lor’ had beaucoup habit rouge’ in his wardrobe.  Not only habit rouge, but habit blue and buff, that he used to sport with ‘Old Beaufort’ and the Badminton Hunt—­coats that he certainly had no chance of ever getting into again, but still which he kept as memorials of the past—­souvenirs of the days when he was young and slim.  The bottle-conjurer could just as soon have got into his quart bottle as Puff could into the Beaufort coat at the time of which we are writing.  The intelligence of their existence was quickly followed by the aforesaid fifty-pound cheque.  A meeting of the Mangeysterne hunt was called at the sign of the Thirsty Freeman in Swillingford—­Sir Charles Figgs, Knight—­a large-promising but badly paying subscriber—­in the chair, when it was proposed and carried unanimously that Mr. Puffington was eminently qualified for the mastership of the hunt, and that it be offered to him accordingly.  Puff ‘bit.’  He recalled his early exploits with ‘Mostyn and old Beaufort,’ and resolved that the hunt had taken a right view of his abilities.  In coming to this decision he, perhaps, was not altogether uninfluenced by a plausible subscription list, which seemed about equal to the ordinary expenses, supposing that any reliance could be placed on the figures and calculations of Sir Charles.  All those, however, who have had anything to do with subscription lists—­and in these days of universal testimonializing who has not?—­well know that pounds upon paper and pounds in the pocket are very different things.  Above all Puff felt that he was a new man in the country, and that taking the hounds would give him weight.

The ‘Mangeysterne dogs’ then began to ‘look up’; Mr. Puffington took to them in earnest; bought a ‘Beckford,’ and shortened his military stirrups to a hunting seat.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A SWELL HUNTSMAN

One evening the rattle of Puff’s pole-chains brought, in addition to the usual rush of shirt-sleeved helpers, an extremely smart, dapper little man, who might be either a jockey or a gentleman, or both, or neither.  He was a clean-shaved, close-trimmed, spruce little fellow; remarkably natty about the legs—­indeed, all over.  His close-napped hat was carefully brushed, and what little hair appeared below its slightly curved brim was of the pepper-and-salt mixture of—­say, fifty years.  His face, though somewhat wrinkled and weather-beaten, was bright and healthy; and there was a twinkle about his little grey eyes that spoke of quickness and watchful observation.  Altogether, he was a very quick-looking little man—­a sort of man that would know what you were going to say before you had well broke ground.  He wore no gills; and his neatly tied starcher had a white ground with small black spots, about the size of currants.