“To be sure you will, Stephen,” said Mrs. Boulby, bending as in a curtsey to the glass; and so soft with him that foolish fellows thought her cowed by the accusation thrown at her favourite.

“There’s two questions about they valpecies, Master Stephen,” said Farmer Wainsby, a farmer with a grievance, fixing his elbow on his knee for serious utterance.  “There’s to ask, and t’ ask again.  Sport, I grant ye.  All in doo season.  But,” he performed a circle with his pipe stem, and darted it as from the centre thereof toward Stephen’s breast, with the poser, “do we s’pport thieves at public expense for them to keep thievin’—­black, white, or brown—­no matter, eh?  Well, then, if the public wunt bear it, dang me if I can see why individles shud bear it.  It ent no manner o’ reason, net as I can see; let gentlemen have their opinion, or let ’em not.  Foxes be hanged!”

Much slow winking was interchanged.  In a general sense, Farmer Wainsby’s remarks were held to be un-English, though he was pardoned for them as one having peculiar interests at stake.

“Ay, ay! we know all about that,” said Stephen, taking succour from the eyes surrounding him.

“And so, may be, do we,” said Wainsby.

“Fox-hunting ’ll go on when your great-grandfather’s your youngest son, farmer; or t’ other way.”

“I reckon it’ll be a stuffed fox your chil’ern ’ll hunt, Mr. Steeve; more straw in ’em than bow’ls.”

“If the country,” Stephen thumped the table, “were what you’d make of it, hang me if my name ’d long be Englishman!”

“Hear, hear, Steeve!” was shouted in support of the Conservative principle enunciated by him.

“What I say is, flesh and blood afore foxes!”

Thus did Farmer Wainsby likewise attempt a rallying-cry; but Stephen’s retort, “Ain’t foxes flesh and blood?” convicted him of clumsiness, and, buoyed on the uproar of cheers, Stephen pursued, “They are; to kill ’em in cold blood’s beast-murder, so it is.  What do we do?  We give ’em a fair field—­a fair field and no favour!  We let ’em trust to the instincts Nature, she’s given ’em; and don’t the old woman know best?  If they cap, get away, they win the day.  All’s open, and honest, and aboveboard.  Kill your rats and kill your rabbits, but leave foxes to your betters.  Foxes are gentlemen.  You don’t understand?  Be hanged if they ain’t!  I like the old fox, and I don’t like to see him murdered and exterminated, but die the death of a gentleman, at the hands of gentlemen—­”

“And ladies,” sneered the farmer.

All the room was with Stephen, and would have backed him uproariously, had he not reached his sounding period without knowing it, and thus allowed his opponent to slip in that abominable addition.

“Ay, and ladies,” cried the huntsman, keen at recovery.  “Why shouldn’t they?  I hate a field without a woman in it; don’t you? and you? and you?  And you, too, Mrs. Boulby?  There you are, and the room looks better for you—­don’t it, lads?  Hurrah!”