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Updated: May 11, 2025
"I've got the real thing to sell, and I want a man as knows the real thing to see it before it's bought. Then you're satisfied and I'm satisfied. If I ain't mistaken now, Captain Fyffe's the man that hooked you out of that blasted Austrian dungeon." "It is to Captain Fyffe," the count answered, "that I owe my liberty." "Then you owe him a lot," retorted Mr. Quorn.
That ain't vague, captain, is it? We both know all about it," he went on, "and I reckon it ought to grease this contract just a little and make it run smooth. Your time's here, if ever it will be, and I propose we strike a bargain." "When can you supply the goods?" asked the count. "Where?" asked Mr. Quorn, as if he were chopping something with a hatchet.
Hodgson told Nimrod, that the Quorn Pack never had a case of kennel lameness until his late huntsman took to washing his hounds after hunting, and then he often had four or five couples ill from this cause. He deprecated even their access to water in the evening after hunting, and we believe that he was quite right in so doing.
Quorn, "but I may be allowed to say that I have been in a business of this sort more than once in my time, and I never knew any good come out of the introduction of a petticoat." Violet looked at him, and I saw her lips twitch with an impulse towards laughter; but Mr. Quorn obviously misunderstood the emotions he had inspired.
Fear, or girlish modesty, had hitherto kept her silent. Then Atys rose on his fetlocks! Despite his double burden, the good steed meant to have it. He deemed, perchance, he was with the Quorn or the Baron's. He rose; he sprang. The deep yellow water, cold in the moon's rays, with the farthest bank but a chill grey line in the mist, lay beneath us! A moment that seemed an eternity!
He was riding brilliantly at fifty-eight, in his last season with the Quorn, when he met with an accident which compelled him to resign his post. With Lord Lonsdale as Master, and Tom Firr as huntsman, the Quorn possessed two of the most perfect horsemen who ever crossed Leicestershire.
An old assistant huntsman in an old red coat, with one boy mounted on a ragged pony, served for an establishment. The whole thing was despicable in the eyes of men from the Quorn and Cottesmore. But there was some wonderful riding and much constant sport with the Braeside Harriers, and the country had given birth to certainly the best hunting song in the language;
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