Some of the field had arrived before us, and others were trotting briskly up, the hoofs of their horses clattering along the roads in all directions.
“We must look out for ourselves to-day,” said Trimbush, “or there will be cases for the hospital.”
“They are a rough-looking set,” replied I, glancing at some thirty horses, not one of which would fetch ten pounds, and all in a high state of perspiration, with their riders puffing cigars and smelling of all kinds of horrible mixtures. I felt quite ill, and a little more would have turned my stomach.
“If any of these gentlemen,” remarked Trimbush, sneezing, “of high rank and particular smell, get down wind of us to-day, we shall not be able to hunt a yard.”
“What a dreadful thing it is,” returned I, “that men should make themselves so offensive. I don’t suppose they have any noses, have they?”
“Can’t you see they have?” replied my companion.
“But it doesn’t follow that they are any use,” said I.
“Well!” added Trimbush, “as far as that goes I don’t think they are, although I have heard of some men capable of smelling a rat.”
A few of the gentlemen who regularly joined us now came up on their hacks, and instantly afterwards their clothed and hooded hunters, being led up and down by neatly dressed and light-weight grooms, were stripped and mounted by their respective owners. The contrast was strangely striking between these and the “roughs,” and, perhaps, caused my admiration to be greater as I regarded each climbing into the pigskin.
Our master, as was his wont, and which should be that of every one entitled to the dignity of a M. F. H., made his appearance to the minute of the hour fixed, and, lifting his hat, saluted the field generally, while he gave his hand, and exchanged warmer salutations with his friends and associates.