“Then I respect that man the more.  What is that man’s name?” Morton hadn’t heard the name, or had forgotten it.  “I shall find that man out, and have some conversation with him, Mr. Morton.  I respect that man, Mr. Morton.  He’s one against two hundred, and he insists upon his rights.  Those men standing round and wiping their eyes, and stifled with grief because a fox had been poisoned, as though some great patriot had died among them in the service of his country, formed one of the most remarkable phenomena, Sir, that ever I beheld in any country.  When I get among my own people in Mickewa and tell them that, they won’t believe me, sir.”

In the meantime the cavalcade was hurrying away to Impington Gorse, and John Morton, feeling that he had not had an opportunity as yet of showing his American friend the best side of hunting, went with them.  The five miles were five long miles, and as the pace was not above seven miles an hour, nearly an hour was occupied.  There was therefore plenty of opportunity for the Senator to inquire whether the gentlemen around him were as yet enjoying their sport.  There was an air of triumph about him as to the misfortunes of the day, joined to a battery of continued raillery, which made it almost impossible for Morton to keep his temper.  He asked whether it was not at any rate better than trotting a pair of horses backwards and forwards over the same mile of road for half the day, as is the custom in the States.  But the Senator, though he did not quite approve of trotting matches, argued that there was infinitely more of skill and ingenuity in the American pastime.  “Everybody is so gloomy,” said the Senator, lighting his third cigar.  “I’ve been watching that young man in pink boots for the last half hour, and he hasn’t spoken a word to any one.”

“Perhaps he’s a stranger,” said Morton.

“And that’s the way you treat him!”

It was past two when the hounds were put into the gorse, and certainly no one was in a very good humour.  A trot of five miles is disagreeable, and two o’clock in November is late for finding a first fox; and then poisoning is a vice that may grow into a habit!  There was a general feeling that Goarly ought to be extinguished, but an idea that it might be difficult to extinguish him.  The whips, nevertheless, cantered on to the corner of the covert, and Tony put in his hounds with a cheery voice.  The Senator remarked that the gorse was a very little place,—­for as they were on the side of an opposite hill they could see it all.  Lord Rufford, who was standing by the carriage, explained to him that it was a favourite resort of foxes, and difficult to draw as being very close.  “Perhaps they’ve poisoned him too,” said the Senator.  It was evident from his voice that had such been the case, he would not have been among the mourners.  “The blackguards are not yet thick enough in our country for that,” said Lord Rufford, meaning to be sarcastic.