They'd only killed a brace since they began hunting up to yesterday.

The rest were all cubs, poor things!--all cubs, poor things! Mr.Puffington's hounds are not the sort of animals to kill foxes: nasty, skirtin', flashy, jealous divils; always starin' about for holloas and assistance.

I'll be d----d if I'd give eighteenpence for the 'ole lot on 'em.' A loud guffaw from the Flat Hat men greeted this wholesale condemnation.
The Puffington men looked unutterable things, and there is no saying what disagreeable comparisons might have been instituted (for the Puffingtonians mustered strong) had not his lordship and Jack cast up at the moment.

Hats off and politeness was then the order of the day.
'Mornin',' said his lordship, with a snatch of his hat in return, as he pulled up and stared into the cloud-enveloped crowd; 'Mornin', Fyle; mornin', Fossick,' he continued, as he distinguished those worthies, as much by their hats as anything else.

'Where are the horses ?' he said to Frostyface.
[Illustration: JACK FROSTY AND CHARLEY SLAPP] 'Just beyond there, my lord,' replied the huntsman, pointing with his whip to where a cockaded servant was 'to-and-froing' a couple of hunters--a brown and a chestnut.
'Let's be doing,' said his lordship, trotting up to them and throwing himself off his hack like a sack.