A SWELL HUNTSMAN One evening the rattle of Puff's pole-chains brought, in addition to the usual rush of shirt-sleeved helpers, an extremely smart, dapper little man, who might be either a jockey or a gentleman, or both, or neither.

He was a clean-shaved, close-trimmed, spruce little fellow; remarkably natty about the legs--indeed, all over.

His close-napped hat was carefully brushed, and what little hair appeared below its slightly curved brim was of the pepper-and-salt mixture of--say, fifty years.

His face, though somewhat wrinkled and weather-beaten, was bright and healthy; and there was a twinkle about his little grey eyes that spoke of quickness and watchful observation.

Altogether, he was a very quick-looking little man--a sort of man that would know what you were going to say before you had well broke ground.