‘Yes, Sir Harry,’ replied Peter, leaving the room.

Presently Peter’s white legs were seen wending their way among the laurels and evergreens, in the direction of Mr. Watchorn’s house; he having a house and grass for six cows, all whose milk, he declared, went to the puppies and young hounds.  Luckily, or unluckily perhaps, Mr. Watchorn was at home, and was in the act of shaving as Peter entered.  He was a square-built dark-faced, dark-haired, good-looking, ill-looking fellow who cultivated his face on the four-course system of husbandry.  First, he had a bare fallow—­we mean a clean shave; that of course was followed by a full crop of hair all over, except on his upper lip; then he had a soldier’s shave, off by the ear; which in turn was followed by a Newgate frill.  The latter was his present style.  He had now no whiskers, but an immense protuberance of bristly black hair, rising like a wave above his kerchief.  Though he cared no more about hunting than his master, he was very fond of his red coat, which he wore on all occasions, substituting a hat for a cap when ‘off duty,’ as he called it.  Having attired himself in his best scarlet, of which he claimed three a year—­one for wet days, one for dry days, another for high days—­very natty kerseymere shorts and gaiters, with a small-striped, standing-collar, toilenette waistcoat, he proceeded to obey the summons.

‘Watchorn,’ said Sir Harry, as the important gentleman appeared at the breakfast-room door—­’Watchorn, these young (hiccup) gentlemen want a (hiccup) hunt.’

’Oh! want must be their master, Sir ‘Arry,’ replied Watchorn, with a broad grin on his flushed face, for he had been drinking all night, and was half drunk then.

‘Can’t you manage it?’ asked Sir Harry, mildly.

’’Ow is’t possible.  Sir ‘Arry,’ asked the huntsman, ’’ow is’t possible?  No man’s fonder of ‘untin’ than I am, but to turn out on sich a day as this would be a daring—­a desperate violation of all the laws of registered propriety.  The Pope’s bull would be nothin’ to it!’

‘How so?’ asked Sir Harry, puzzled with the jumble.

‘How so?’ repeated Watchorn; ’how so?  Why, in the fust place, it’s a mortal ’ard frost, ’arder nor hiron; in the second place, I’ve got no arrangements made—­you can’t turn out a pack of ’igh-bred fox-’ounds as you would a lot of “staggers” or “muggers”; and, in the third place, you’ll knock all your nags to bits, and they are a deal better in their wind than they are on their legs, as it is.  No, Sir ‘Arry—­no,’ continued he, slowly and thoughtfully.  ’No, Sir ’Arry, no.  Be Cardinal Wiseman, for once.  Sir ’Arry; be Cardinal Wiseman for once, and don’t think of it.’

‘Well,’ replied Sir Harry, looking at George Cheek, ’I suppose there’s no help for it.’

‘It was quite a thaw where I came from,’ observed Cheek, half to Sir Harry and half to the huntsman.

’’Deed, sir, ‘deed,’ replied Mr. Watchorn, with a chuck of his fringed chin, ‘it generally is a thaw everywhere but where hounds meet.’