"What a fine specimen of your English squire!" says Stangrave.
"He is no squire; he is the Whitbury banker, of whom I told you."
"Armsworth!" said Stangrave, looking at the old man with interest.
"Mark Armsworth himself. He is acting as squire, though, now; for he has hunted the Whitford Priors ever since poor old Lavington's death."
"Now then—those horse-boxes!"…
"Very sorry, sir; I telegraphed up, but we could get but one down."
"Put the horses into that, then; and there's an empty carriage! Jack, put the hounds into it, and they shall all go second class, as sure as I'm chairman!"
The grinning porters hand the strange passengers in, while Mark counts the couples with his whip-point,—
"Ravager—Roysterer; Melody—Gay-lass; all right. Why, where's that old thief of a Goodman?"
"Went over a gate as soon as he saw the couples; and wouldn't come in at any price, sir," says the huntsman. "Gone home by himself, I expect."