Joe, however, was absent; not holiday-making, but on a diplomatic visit to Mr. Greystones, the miller, at Splashford, who had positively refused to supply any more meal, until his ‘little bill’ (L430) for the three previous years was settled; and flesh being very scarce in the country, the hounds were quite light and fit to go.  Joe had gone to try and coax Greystones out of a ton or two of meal, on the strength of its being New Year’s Day.

‘Dash the feller! wot’s got’im?’ exclaimed Watchorn, seizing the latch, and rattling it furiously.  The melody of the hungry pack increased. ’’Ord rot the door!’ exclaimed the infuriated huntsman, setting his back against it; at the first push, open it flew.  Watchorn fell back, and the astonished pack poured over his prostrate body, regardless alike of his holiday coat, his tidy tie, and toilenette vest.  What a scrimmage!  What a kick-up was there!  Away the hounds scampered, towling and howling, some up to the fleshwheel, to see if there was any meat; some to the bone heap, to see if there was any there; others down to the dairy, to try and effect an entrance in it; while Launcher, and Lightsome, and Burster, rushed to the backyard of Nonsuch House, and were presently over ears in the pig-pail.

‘Get me my horn! get me my whop!—­get me my cap!—­get me my bouts!’ exclaimed Watchorn, as he recovered his legs, and saw his wife eyeing the scene from the door.  ’Get me my bouts!—­get me my cap!—­get me my whop!—­get me my horn, woman!’ continued he, reversing the order of things, and rubbing the hounds’ feetmarks off his clothes as he spoke.

Mrs. Watchorn was too well drilled to dwell upon orders, and she met her lord and master in the passage with the enumerated articles in her hand.  Watchorn having deposited himself on an entrance-hall chair—­for it was a roomy, well-furnished house, having been the steward’s while there was anything to take care of—­Mrs. Watchorn proceeded to strip off his gaiters while he drew on his boots and crowned himself with his cap.  Mrs. Watchorn then buckled on his spurs, and he hurried off, horn in hand, desiring her to have him a basin of turtle-soup ready against he came in; adding, ’She knew where to get it.’  The frosty air then resounded with the twang, twang, twang of his horn, and hounds began drawing up from all quarters, just as sportsmen cast up at a meet from no one knows where.

‘He-here, hounds—­he-here, good dogs!’ cried he, coaxing and making much of the first-comers:  ‘he-here.  Galloper, old boy!’ continued he, diving into his coat-pocket, and throwing him a bit of biscuit.  The appearance of food had a very encouraging effect, for forthwith there was a general rush towards Watchorn, and it was only by rating and swinging his ‘whop’ about that he prevented the pack from pawing, and perhaps downing him.  At length, having got them somewhat tranquillized, he set off on his return to the stables, coaxing the shy hounds, and rating and rapping those that seemed