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Updated: May 22, 2025
"But they say he's actually going to Lord Rufford's," said young Botsey who would have given one of his fingers to be asked to the lord's house. "They are all going from Bragton," said Runciman. "The young squire is going to ride one of my horses," said Harry Stubbings. "That'll be an easy three pounds in your pockets, Harry," said the doctor.
Dillsborough Wood had not been drawn yet since Scrobby's poison had taken effect on the old fox, and there were some few who affected to think that there still might be danger. Among these was the Master himself, who asked Fred Botsey with a sneer whether he thought that such hounds as those were to be picked up at every corner.
"The fox has gone on to the gorse," said the elder Botsey; "what a stupid old pig he is;" meaning that Tony Tuppet was the pig. "He was seen going on," said Larry, who had come across a man mending a drain. "It would be his run of course," said Hampton, who was generally up to Tony's wiles, but who was now as much in the dark as others.
"He was over at my place this evening," said the attorney. "You are not going to take his case up for him, Mr. Masters?" said young Botsey. "We expect something better from you than that." Now Ned Botsey was rather an impudent young man, and Mr. Masters, though he was mild enough at home, did not like impudence from the world at large. "I suppose, Mr.
Making a circle, or the beginning of a circle, round the fire, were Nupper, the doctor, a sporting old bachelor doctor who had the reputation of riding after the hounds in order that he might be ready for broken bones and minor accidents; next to him, in another arm-chair, facing the fire, was Ned Botsey, the younger of the two brewers from Norrington, who was in the habit during the hunting season of stopping from Saturday to Monday at the Bush, partly because the Rufford hounds hunted on Saturday and Monday and on those days seldom met in the Norrington direction, and partly because he liked the sporting conversation of the Dillsborough Club.
He had tried his best because he had really loved the girl. He had failed, and all the world, all his world, would know that he had failed. There was not a man in the club, hardly a man in the hunt, who was not aware that he had offered to Mary Masters. During the last two months he had not been so reticent as was prudent, and had almost boasted to Fred Botsey of success.
It was pretty to see the quiet ease and apparent nonchalance and almost affected absence of bustle of those who knew their work, among whom were especially to be named young Hampton, and the elder Botsey, and Lord Rufford, and, above all, a dark-visaged, long-whiskered, sombre, military man who had been in the carriage with Lord Rufford, and who had hardly spoken a word to any one the whole day.
"I thought you would have known" "A gentleman may know a thing, Mr. Botsey," said the landlord, "and not exactly choose to tell it." "I didn't suppose there was any secret," said the brewer. As Mr. Masters made no further remark it was of course conceived that he knew all about it and he was therefore treated with some increased deference.
It was the first word he had spoken since he had put down young Botsey. "It wouldn't just suit me; but a man has to judge of those things for himself." Then there was a general rejoicing, and Mr. Runciman stood broiled bones, and ham and eggs, and bottled stout for the entire club; one unfortunate effect of which unwonted conviviality was that Mr. Masters did not get home till near twelve o'clock.
Larry Twentyman and Ned Botsey expressed an opinion that pheasants were predominant in Dillsborough Wood, while Mr. Runciman, the doctor, and Harry Stubbings declared loudly that everything that foxes could desire was done for them in that Elysium of sport. "We drew the wood blank last time we were there," said Larry. "Don't you remember, Mr. Runciman, about the end of last March?"
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