They were neither a scratch pack nor a regular pack, but something betwixt and between.

They were hunted by a saddler, who found his own horses, and sometimes he had a whip and sometimes he hadn't.

The establishment died as often as old Mantalini himself.

Every season that came to a close was proclaimed to be their last, but somehow or other they always managed to scramble into existence on the approach of another.

It is a way, indeed, that delicate packs have of recruiting their finances.