some at Northampton, to ’’unt with the Pytchley’; some at Lincoln, to ’’unt with Lord ‘Enry’; and some at Louth, to ’’unt with’—­he didn’t know who.  What a fine flattering, well-spoken world this is, when the speaker can raise his own consequence by our elevation!  One would think that ’envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness’ had gone to California.  A weak-minded man might have his head turned by hearing the description given of him by his friends.  But hear the same party on the running-down tack!—­when either his own importance is not involved, or dire offence makes it worth his while’ to cut off his nose to spite his face.’  No one would recognize the portrait then drawn as one of the same individual.

Mr. Leather, as we said before, was in the laudatory strain, but, like many indiscreet people, he overdid it.  Not content with magnifying the stud to the liberal extent already described, he must needs puff his master’s riding, and indulge in insinuations about’ showing them all the way,’ and so on.  Now nothing ‘aggrawates’ other grooms so much as this sort of threat, and few things travel quicker than these sort of vapourings to their masters’ ears.  Indeed, we can only excuse the lengths to which Leather went, on the ground of his previous coaching career not having afforded him a due insight into the delicacies of the hunting stable; it being remembered that he was only now acting as stud-groom for the first time.  However, be that as it may, he brewed up a pretty storm, and the longer it raged the stronger it became.

‘’Ord dash it!’ exclaimed young Spareneck, the steeple-chase rider, bursting into Scorer’s billiard-room in the midst of a full gathering, who were looking on at a grand game of poule, ’Ord dash it! there’s a fellow coming who swears by Jove that he’ll take the shine out of us all, “cut us all down!"’

‘I’ll play him for what he likes!’ exclaimed the cool, coatless Captain Macer, striking his ball away for a cannon.

‘Hang your play!’ replied Spareneck; ’you’re always thinking of play—­it’s hunting I’m talking of.’ bringing his heavy, silver-mounted jockey-whip a crack down his leg.

‘You don’t say so!’ exclaimed Sam Shortcut, who had been flattered into riding rather harder than he liked, and feared his pluck might be put to the test.

’What a ruffian!’—­(puff)—­observed Mr. Waffles, taking his cigar from his mouth as he sat on the bench, dressed as a racket-player, looking on at the game, ‘he shalln’t ride roughshod over us.’

‘That he shalln’t!’ exclaimed Caingey Thornton, Mr. Waffles’s premier toady, and constant trencherman.

‘I’ll ride him!’ rejoined Mr. Spareneck, jockeying his arms, and flourishing his whip as if he was at work, adding:  ’his old brandy-nosed, frosty-whiskered trumpeter of a groom says he’s coming down by the five o’clock train.  I vote we go and meet him—­invite him to a steeple-chase by moonlight.’