That evening, after Sir John has finished his dinner, his butler tells him that the Huntsman wishes to speak a word to him, and then Tom tells his master the story, and what he expected would come of it.
"He'll never forgive you, Tom, if you are right in what you think; and he's one of our best supporters," exclaimed Sir John, roaring with laughter.
"Never fear, sir, never fear. I can work round him right enow; and I'm thinking, Sir John, if so be as you will say naught, but just write up the week after to contradict the whole thing, it will give Mr. Hall a lesson. He dursn't say anything, as he knows you don't like the 'ounds wrote of, and the paper won't have no more from Mr. 'Black Hat'" (the nom de plume of the Bullshire correspondent).
Next Saturday morning, as sure as fate, men are surprised to see a description of an extraordinary run from Ambleside, as follows:
"A Remarkably Good Day with the Bullshire.
"On Tuesday last this sporting pack had a wonderfully good run in a gale of wind. There was not a large muster at the meet (Brainsty cross-roads) owing to the inclemency of the weather, but those who were bold enough to face the elements had no cause to regret their temerity. The first draw was Ambleside Banks, noted throughout the country for the stoutness of its foxes; and on the day in question it fully kept up its reputation, for scarcely had that best of huntsmen, Tom Wilding, thrown his hounds into covert, than a real traveller broke away with the pack almost at his brush. Strange to say he headed straight up wind, notwithstanding that, as I have said, it was blowing a gale, and made the best of his way to Kirby village; then, turning to the right, he led them a cracking pace over the vale through Shawston to Hinckley Wood; here he was inclined to hang in covert, but the hounds would not be denied, and forced him out, when he made his point for Lyston, some three miles off. The pace had been very fast and the country very stiff, so that the field was greatly reduced, and there were many cases of profundit humi. Most of the first flight, however, were 'all there,' including, among others, place aux dames, Mrs. Talford, Sir John Lappington (the Master), Mr. Halston, and Mr. Bowles. About a mile from Lyston there was a short but welcome check, owing to the fox having been coursed by a sheep-dog; but Tom, by a judicious cast, hit off the line, and they were away again. Leaving Lyston on the left (Reynard having tried the earths there, and found no admittance), the line lay through Oxley, over the brook—which proved a serious obstacle to more than one sportsman—indeed, there were, as might have been expected considering the pace, more in than over. But to continue. Having run straight through the village of Oxley, this gallant fox made for Mr. Browne's farm on the hill; but, unfortunately for him, the hounds were close at his brush, and before he could reach that bourne the 'who-whoop' had sounded his requiem. Mr. Browne, with his usual hospitality, regaled those who were there to see the end, and a nip of his famous ginger brandy was an offer not to be refused, especially with a long ride home in the teeth of the wind. The time from start to finish was an hour and five minutes, almost without a check, and the distance from point to point could not be less than nine miles. When this celebrated pack have another run such as that I have endeavoured to describe, may I be again there to see.
"Black Hat."
"Who the deuce can have written all that farrago of nonsense?" says Mr. Boulter. "Why, we never ran more than a mile and a half." And the Secretary is not the only one who makes anxious inquiries.
Mr. Hall has been away in London, and, having only returned that morning is in blissful ignorance of the way he has been taken in.
As he arrives there is a general shout of "Here, Hall, you're an Authority; some idiot has been cooking up an account of Tuesday's sport and writing to the papers. You never read such a pack of lies in your life. We must stop this sort of thing. What should be done?"
The gentleman's feelings can be better imagined than described, and as he stammers out "I have not seen the paper," he wishes himself elsewhere.