"Which is the way to Langley, my good man?" asks Mr. Tyrol of a countryman he overtakes on his way to the meet. Mr. Tyrol, who is a stranger to the Bullshire, and has come down just to look at the country and see what it is like with a view to future operations, as yet does not know his way about, so is glad of any information he can obtain as to the most direct route.

"Yew mun tak furst turnin to right till yer com' to smithy, then keep straight on past Jack Spender's down t' green lane, but mind yer dunna mistake t' road past ould Betty Wilson's cottage, and then you're sure to be right," replies the man, with a glance at his interlocutor.

"Thanks," says Mr. Tyrol, not much the wiser. "Let me see. I've got to go down to the green lane, and then past Mrs. Wilson's cottage; but how am I to know which is the right cottage—and how far it is?"

"Oh, any chap 'ull tell yer ould Betty's place; it's better nor six mile if yer go one way and under four if yer tak t' other."

"And which is the short way?" is Mr. T.'s next question.

"Well," replies his director, "yew mun go as I've tould yer, till yer come t' lane, then turn into field past the works. Yer know the works maybe?" and on Mr. Tyrol confessing his ignorance, after a pause: "Ah, that maks a 'nation difference, doan't it?"

The fact is not for a moment to be disputed, and Mr. Tyrol is in despair, when suddenly a bright idea strikes Hodge, and he looks up, saying: "Perhaps you're a-going fox-'unting?"

As it is not customary for people to ride about in pink, save in civic processions, unless they are "on sport intent," it becomes hardly necessary to answer, and Mr. T. wonders what Hodge could possibly have thought he was going to do.

"If so be," however, continues the pedestrian, "I'm a-going t' meet mysen, and I can show yer t' road. Can that 'oss jump? Acos we've got to go through Farmer Danby's meaders, and 'e most allus locks his gates."

Notwithstanding the chance of a locked gate and a nasty fence in cold blood, Mr. Tyrol thinks it an opportunity not to be lost, and gladly avails himself of the proffered guidance, while Hodge sees a prospective shilling in the horizon, which, with great accuracy, he divides as he tramps along into "three pots o' four."

"And what sort of a country is Langley?" asks the directee of his guide and director, after about a quarter of a mile passed in silence.

"Foine country for turnips," is the reply. "I mind when Mr. Arles—you knows him I'll be bound? Not know Mr. Arles! Why I thought everyone know'd him, he's the biggest man about these parts; he was the Dook's agent. Well, I mind when he got better nor——"

Here Mr. Tyrol thinks it advisable to check the flow of Hodge's conversation, as he sees plainly that unless he does so he will be in for an agricultural dissertation on the producing power per acre of Mr. Arles' land, so he cuts him short with "I don't mean that; I mean what sort of a country is it to ride over? Stiff big fences, or what?"

"Some big, some littel; but there's allus a road as you can git along if so be as you don't care about leping; and there's any amount o' foxes—swarms on 'em. Why, it was only last week as ould Jim tould me as Bill Upton 'ad tould him as he see'd two when he wor working in Squire Beale's plantation. But there's Langley, sir. Thank ye kindly." And Hodge, the richer by a shilling, stops at the wayside public-house to drink the stranger's health.

Happy in having arrived at his destination, and much instructed and amused by what he had heard, Mr. Tyrol rides on to where old Tom and the hounds are visible, and is soon lost to sight in the crowd of horses and men at the meet. By the time he has done contemplating the hounds, Hodge has finished his libation, and, in company with a "mate," comes on the scene of action.

"Mornin', mayster," says he to old Tom; "whear be you a-going furst?" and on hearing that Collingly Wood will be the first draw, he turns to his companion and says: "By Guy, mate, we mun look slippy or we shanna be there in time."

It is not every day in the week that these "horny-handed sons of toil" get an outing, and they do not mean to lose their chance of seeing the fun if they can help it. So away they go, followed by three or four boys, towards the big wood seen in the distance. They have not gone far before they discover that they have followers, and knowing well that with these in their wake it will be impossible to secrete themselves in an advantageous position, they turn round and deliver a few home-truths, which, though not particularly elegant, answer the purpose, and have the desired effect of getting rid of the boys. This done, they continue their route till they arrive at the hunting-gate leading into the covert.

"Now I wonder which end t' ould mon will begin at?" asks the elder of his companion.

"I dunna knoa," replies Number Two, putting his finger into his mouth and holding it up; "but from the way o' the wind I should say as 'e'll start down here; bound to go up-wind."

No fool in matters of sport is Hodge, and, chawbacon as you may call him, you would find it hard to puzzle him on the subject of the "run of a fox," always provided he understood your questions. Old Tom knows his value well, and over and over again have things been put straight by the far-seeing blue eye; and "'E's gone yonder by th' ould barn," or "I'v seed 'im cross o'er bottom," has enabled the Huntsman to hit off the line without wasting the precious moments in a long and speculative cast.

The two "mates" have barely ensconced themselves comfortably on the top of a stack of "cordwood," from whence they can command more than half the wood, when the pack arrive, and the horsemen, as they file through the gateway, are subjected to a running fire of criticism. Woe betide the man whose animal obstinately refuses some small fence within sight of Hodge and Co. Although the rider will not hear the speech, the loud laugh from one or the other tells him plainly enough that he is the cause of their merriment, and he wishes himself—or them—farther away. As soon as the hounds are thrown in the occupants of the cordwood stack become excited, and the younger of them, our friend of the road, suggests an adjournment to a tree where he thinks a better view can be obtained.

"Stop where yer be, Jim," says the elder; "yer canna do better, and if yer gets messing about now you'll only have t' Master and old Tom atop o' yer back." So Jim is persuaded, and remains quiet. Presently a yellow body is seen stealing through the underwood, and the chorus of music shows that the hounds are aware of Mr. Reynard's presence.

"There 'e goes," whispers Jim, "and here they come. By Guy, the're away," as the hounds dash through the covert, and a loud "Tally-ho" is heard on the other side. To slip down is the work of an instant, and both Jim and his companion are making the best of their way to the corner where the fox has broken. Here they find a regular crush; the hunting-gate is locked or jammed, and no one can get out. Threading their way through the horses, however, with the help of a good heave, a strong heave, and a heave both together, the pair manage to have the gate off its hinges, and the impatient field rush through, nearly overturning Jim in their mad career.

"Oh, go on, go on," says that worthy, as he jumps out of the way; "some on yer won't go much farther than the first fence at that pace."

And he is right.

There are two or three loose horses running about, one of which he manages to catch and restore to the owner, receiving in return a small acknowledgment, which—having submitted to the universal test, his teeth—he slips into the pocket of his brown corduroys.

The next field is a stiffish plough, and by the time he is halfway across Hodge is done, and he finds his heavy boots none the lighter for three or four inches of wet clay adhering to the soles. However, the sight of a friendly hayrick in the distance consoles him, and to his great delight he sees a ladder is reared against it and a man at work cutting out some trusses.

"Can yer see ought on 'em, ould man?" he pants, as he reaches the foot of the ladder, and the "ould man" from his coign of vantage, shouts back: "Nip up, lad, nip up, the're a-going like billy o'." Jim is quickly alongside, his face beaming with excitement as he sees the whole panorama of the chase stretched out before him. As he watches, he notices his friend of the morning—Mr. Tyrol—and points him out to the man on the rick. Luck favouring the spectators, the hounds suddenly swing sharp round and cross close beneath and within hearing. There is a nasty fence over which the line lies, and a goodish few turn away for the gate, but Mr. Tyrol heads straight for it with the rest of the hard-riders.

"Well done, sir; well done!" roars Hodge from the rick, and Mr. T., recognising him, gives him a nod as he rides at the fence. His horse, however, jumps short, and the result is a rattling fall.

"Laws, that's a buster," says Jim; "I mun go and help him, he gied me a bob;" showing by his words the triumph of filthy lucre over Christian charity. Not that he would not have been just as ready to pick up anyone without the shilling, but the gift had made a profound impression, and the thought that was uppermost found vent in words.

By the time he reaches the spot Mr. Tyrol has picked himself up, and, catching his horse, is away; and Hodge returns to the rick to see the last he can of the receding chase.

As he trudges homewards he hears various accounts of how "the hounds are been by," etc., and lighting his pipe he makes his way towards his own particular inn where he usually takes his glass.

He is going along leisurely over the fields when he hears a loud voice behind him, and turning round, finds himself face to face with two men on horseback, one of whom is ordering him to "Open that gate there, do you hear?" Hodge knows in a moment that he is not a Bullshire man; and what is more, he recognises in an equally short space that he is not a gentleman for all his pink coat and fine feathers, and his native pride rebels; so he takes no notice, but turns round and continues his journey, and getting over the stile with a laugh, he mutters to himself: "'E's got some cheek an' all, d——n him; I shanna open gate unless 'e's a bit more civil."

"Here, you fellah, do you hear—open this gate, will you?" shouts the angry parvenu again, and then commences a course of good solid abuse.

This is more than even Hodge can stand, so he slowly faces round again and says: "Jump o'er it or get off and open it yerself. I ain't paid ter go about t' country helping the likes o' you home."

When he tells the story in the public-house, as tell it he will, after recounting all he saw of the chase and a bit more besides, he will say: "I knowed he wanna out of Bullshire. None of our gents are like that; sum City chap maybe, 'ain't larned manners;" and while spending the rest of the eighteen-pence he has earned out hunting he is as happy as a king, with whom he would not change places for the world, much preferring, so long as he can get occasionally a day off and plenty to eat and drink, to remain as simple—Hodge.