It is noticed that that day he does not give his opinion on the whereabouts of a fox in quite such an authoritative manner, and avoids everybody as much as possible. Of course he soon hears the true account, and on the following Saturday his cup is filled when he reads under the same heading as his own—viz. "A Remarkably Good Day with the Bullshire"—
"Sir,—I beg to inform you that the account of a run on Tuesday week with these hounds, which you gave in your last issue, was entirely fictitious, as we had no sport after the first ten minutes, the hounds being unable to hunt.—I remain yours obediently,
"J. Lappington, Master B.H."
How old Tom managed to smooth the irate individual down is not known, but nothing more ever came of it, save that "Black Hat" no longer sends accounts to the papers of sport with the Bullshire Hounds.
THE BLACKSMITH.
Seven A.M. The church clock rings out the hour in the clear still morning, and the smoke goes up straight into the air from the chimneys of the cottages of Lappington village. One by one the good dames appear at their doors with tucked-up sleeves and heads beshawled, and commence the operation of vigorously shaking strips of carpet, and generally setting things straight.
Their lords and masters have ere this gone to their work, and, with the inevitable short pipe in their mouths, are tramping along best pace to keep up a circulation and keep out the chill of the early morn.