“Go on with your story, Hare,” I said; “when I see this Red-faced Man I will judge of him for myself.  Probably you are prejudiced about him.”

“I daresay I am,” answered the Hare, rubbing its nose; “but please observe that I am not speaking unkindly of Grampus, although before I have done you may think that I might have reason to do so.  However, you will be able to form your own opinion when he comes here, which I am sure he does not mean to do for many, many years.  The world is much too comfortable for him.  He does not wish to leave it.”

“Still he may be obliged to do so, Hare.”

“Oh! no, people like that are never obliged to do anything they do not like.  It is only poor things such as you and I, Mahatma, which must suffer.  I can see that you have had a great deal to bear, and so have I, for we were born to suffering as the Red-faced Man was born to happiness.”

“Go on with your story, Hare,” I repeated.  “You are becoming metaphysical and therefore dull.  The time is short and I want to hear what happened.”

“Quite so, Mahatma.  Well, Grampus came up breathing very heavily and looking very red in the face.  He held his hat in one hand and a large crooked stick in the other, and even the top of his head, on which no hair grew, was red, for he had been running.

“What the deuce is the matter?” he puffed.  “Oh! it is you, Giles, is it?  What are you doing, sir, looking like that, all covered with blood and mud?  Has a poacher shot you, or what?”

“No, Squire,” answered Giles humbly, touching his hat.  “I have shot a poacher, that’s all, and it has given me what for,” and he lifted the body of the fox from the water.

“A fox,” said Grampus, “a fox!  Do you mean to say, Giles, that you have dared to shoot a fox, and a vixen with a litter too?  How often have I told you that, although I keep harriers and not fox-hounds, you are never to touch a fox.  You will get me into trouble with all my neighbours.  I give you a month’s notice.  You will leave on this day month.”

“Very well, Squire,” said Giles, “I’ll leave, and I hope you’ll find some one to serve you better.  Meanwhile I didn’t shoot the dratted fox.  At least I only shot her after she’d gone and got herself into a trap which I had set for that there Rectory dog what you told me to make off with on the quiet, so that the young lady might never know what become of it and cry and make a fuss as she did about the last.  Then seeing that she was finished, with her leg half chewed off, I shot her, or rather I didn’t shoot her as well as I should, for the beggar gave a twist as I fired, and now she’s bit me right through the hand.  I only hopes you won’t have to pay my widow for it, Squire, under the Act, as foxes’ bites is uncommon poisonous, especially when they’ve been a-eating of rotten rabbit.”