‘How is he bred?’ asked Jack, who knew the hound’s pedigree better than he did his own.

’Why, I got him from Reynard—­no, I mean from Downeybird—­the Duke, you know; but he was bred by Fitzwilliam—­by his Singwell out of Darling.  Singwell was by the Rutland Rallywood out of Tavistock Rhapsody; but to make a long story short, he’s lineally descended from the Beaufort Justice.’

‘Indeed!’ exclaimed Jack hardly able to contain himself; ’that’s undeniable blood.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear you say so,’ replied Puffington.  ’I’m glad to hear you say so, for you understand these things—­no man better; and I confess I’ve a warm side to that Beaufort Justice blood.’

‘Don’t wonder at it,’ replied Jack, laughing his waistcoat strings off.

‘The great Mr. Warde,’ continued Mr. Puffington, ’who was justly partial to his own sort, had never any objection to breeding from the Beaufort Justice.’

‘No, nor nobody else that knew what he was about,’ replied Jack, turning away to conceal his laughter.

‘We should be moving, I think, sir,’ observed Bragg, anxious to put an end to the conversation; ‘we should be moving, I think, sir,’ repeated he, with a rap of his forefinger against his cap peak.  ‘It’s past eleven,’ added he, looking at his gold watch, and shutting it against his cheek.

‘What do you draw first?’ asked Jack.

‘Draw—­draw—­draw,’ replied Puffington.  ’Oh, we’ll draw Rabbitborough Gorse—­that’s a new cover I’ve inclosed on my pro-o-r-perty.’

‘Sc-e-e-use me, sir,’ replied Bragg, with a smile, and another rap of the cap:  ‘sc-e-e-use me, sir, but I’m going to Hollyburn Hanger first.’

‘Ah, well, Hollyburn Hanger,’ replied Puffington, complacently; ’either will do very well.’

If Puff had proposed Hollyburn Hanger, Bragg would have said Rabbitborough Gorse.

The move of the hounds caused a rush of gentlemen to their horses, and there was the usual scramblings up, and fidgetings, and funkings, and who-o-hayings and drawing of girths, and taking up of curbs, and lengthening and shortening of stirrups.

Captain Guano couldn’t get his stirrups to his liking anyhow. ’’Ord hang these leathers,’ roared he, clutching up a stirrup-iron; ’who the devil would ever have sent one out a-huntin’ with a pair of new stirrup-leathers?’

‘Hang you and the stirrup leathers,’ growled the groom, as his master rode away; ‘you’re always wantin’ sumfin to find fault with.  I’m blowed if it arn’t a disgrace to an oss to carry such a man,’ added he, eyeing the chestnut fidgeting and wincing as the captain worked away at the stirrups.

Mr. Bragg trotted briskly on with the hounds, preceded by Joe Banks the first whip, and having Jack Swipes the second, and Tom Stot, riding together behind him, to keep off the crowd.

Thus the cavalcade swept down the avenue, crossed the Swillingford turnpike, and took through a well-kept field road, which speedily brought them to the cover—­rough, broomy, brushwood-covered banks, of about three acres in extent, lying on either side of the little Hollyburn Brook, one of the tiny streams that in angry times helped to swell the Swill into a river.