A STAUNCH ALLY On a dark November morning, when a blustering wind drove the rain against the windows, Thomas Foster sat stripping the lock of a favorite gun in the room he called his study, at Hazlehurst, in Shropshire.

The shelves on the handsome paneled walls contained a few works on agriculture, horse-breeding, and British natural history, but two racks were filled with guns and fishing-rods and the table at which Foster was seated had a vise clamped to its edge.

He had once had a commodious gun-room, but had given it up, under pressure from his wife, as Hazlehurst was small and she had numerous guests, but the study was his private retreat.

A hacksaw, a few files, a wire brush, and a bottle of Rangoon oil were spread out in front of him, the latter standing, for the sake of cleanliness, on the cover of the _Field_.
Foster laid down his tools and looked up with an air of humorous resignation as his wife came in.

Mrs.Foster was a slender, vivacious woman, fond of society.
"Put that greasy thing away for a few minutes and listen to me," she said, sitting down opposite him.
"I am listening; I'm inclined to think it's my normal state," Foster answered with a smile.