"How do you like the dogs, sir?"
To his last day Lugley, the huntsman, remembered the slow look of cold surprise, of masterful malice, scathing him from head to foot. The words that followed the look, simple as they were, drove home the naked reproof:
"What is your name, my man?"
"Lugley, sir."
"Lugley! Lugley! H'm! Well, Lugley, I like the hounds better than
I like you. Who is Master of the Hounds, Lugley?"
"Captain Maudsley, sir."
"Just so. You are satisfied with your place, Lugley?"
"Yes, sir," said the man in a humble voice, now cowed.
The news of the arrival of the strangers had come to him late at night, and, with Whipshire stupidity, he had thought that any one coming from the wilds of British America must be but a savage after all.
"Very well; I wouldn't throw myself out of a place, if I were you."