“Yes.  It showed me that he was a quick judge of—­however, I will tell you all about it, then you will understand.  It was a quarter of a century ago 1873 or ’74.  I had an American friend in London named F., who was fond of hunting, and his friends the Blanks invited him and me to come out to a hunt and be their guests at their country place.  In the morning the mounts were provided, but when I saw the horses I changed my mind and asked permission to walk.  I had never seen an English hunter before, and it seemed to me that I could hunt a fox safer on the ground.  I had always been diffident about horses, anyway, even those of the common altitudes, and I did not feel competent to hunt on a horse that went on stilts.  So then Mrs. Blank came to my help and said I could go with her in the dog-cart and we would drive to a place she knew of, and there we should have a good glimpse of the hunt as it went by.

“When we got to that place I got out and went and leaned my elbows on a low stone wall which enclosed a turfy and beautiful great field with heavy wood on all its sides except ours.  Mrs. Blank sat in the dog-cart fifty yards away, which was as near as she could get with the vehicle.  I was full of interest, for I had never seen a fox-hunt.  I waited, dreaming and imagining, in the deep stillness and impressive tranquility which reigned in that retired spot.  Presently, from away off in the forest on the left, a mellow bugle-note came floating; then all of a sudden a multitude of dogs burst out of that forest and went tearing by and disappeared in the forest on the right; there was a pause, and then a cloud of horsemen in black caps and crimson coats plunged out of the left-hand forest and went flaming across the field like a prairie-fire, a stirring sight to see.  There was one man ahead of the rest, and he came spurring straight at me.  He was fiercely excited.  It was fine to see him ride; he was a master horseman.  He came like, a storm till he was within seven feet of me, where I was leaning on the wall, then he stood his horse straight up in the air on his hind toe-nails, and shouted like a demon: 

“‘Which way’d the fox go?’

“I didn’t much like the tone, but I did not let on; for he was excited, you know.  But I was calm; so I said softly, and without acrimony: 

“‘Which fox?’

“It seemed to anger him.  I don’t know why; and he thundered out: 

“‘Which fox?  Why, the fox?  Which way did the fox go?’

“I said, with great gentleness—­even argumentatively: 

“’If you could be a little more definite—­a little less vague—­because I am a stranger, and there are many foxes, as you will know even better than I, and unless I know which one it is that you desire to identify, and——­’

“’You’re certainly the damdest idiot that has escaped in a thousand years!’ and he snatched his great horse around as easily as I would snatch a cat, and was away like a hurricane.  A very excitable man.