never failed to take a glass in passing, either at exercise or out hunting, to deplore that such a nice-looking house, so ‘near the station, too,’ should be ruined as an inn.  It was after a more than usual libation that Watchorn, trotting merrily along with the hounds, having accomplished three blank days in succession, asked himself, as he looked upon the surrounding vale from the rising ground of Hammercock Hill, with the cream-coloured station and the rose-coloured hotel peeping through the trees, whether something might not be done to give the latter a lift.  At first he thought of a pigeon match—­a sweepstake open to all England—­fifty members say, at two pound ten each, seven pigeons, seven sparrows, twenty-one yards rise, two ounces of shot, and so on.  But then, again, he thought there would be a difficulty in getting guns.  A coursing match—­how would that do?  Answer:  ‘No hares.’  The farmers had made such an outcry about the game, that the landowners had shot them all off, and now the farmers were grumbling that they couldn’t get a course.

‘Dash my buttons!’ exclaimed Watchorn; ’it would be the very thing for a steeple-chase!  There’s old Puff’s hounds, and old Scamp’s hounds, and these hounds,’ looking down on the ill-sorted lot around him; ’and the deuce is in it if we couldn’t give the thing such a start as would bring down the lads of the “village,” and a vast amount of good business might be done.  I’m dashed if it isn’t the very country for a steeple-chase!’ continued Watchorn, casting his eye over Cloverly Park, round the enclosure of Langworth Grange, and up the rising ground of Lark Lodge.

The more Watchorn thought of it, the more he was satisfied of its feasibility, and he trotted over, the next day, to the Old Duke of Cumberland, to see his friend on the subject.  Viney, like most victuallers, was more given to games of skill—­billiards, shuttlecock, skittles, dominoes, and so on—­than to the rude out-of-door chances of flood and field, and at first he doubted his ability to grapple with the details; but on Mr. Watchorn’s assurance that he would keep him straight, he gave Mrs. Viney a key, desiring her to go into the inner cellar, and bring out a bottle of the green seal.  This was ninety-shilling sherry—­very good stuff to take; and, by the time they got into the second bottle, they had got into the middle of the scheme too.  Viney was cautious and thoughtful.  He had a high opinion of Watchorn’s sagacity, and so long as Watchorn confined himself to weights, and stakes, and forfeits, and so on, he was content to leave himself in the hands of the huntsman; but when Watchorn came to talk of ‘stewards,’ putting this person and that together, Viney’s experience came in aid.  Viney knew a good deal.  He had not stood twisting a napkin negligently before a plate-loaded sideboard without picking up a good many waifs and strays in the shape of those ins and outs, those likings and dislikings, those hatreds and jealousies, that