The marquis had been master of the pack for a dozen years.
“I’m no sportsman,” said his victim, who had no notion who or what Pug was. “But if it’s the custom in the county——”
“Of course it’s the custom of the county! Roxhall, poor fellow, was a staunch friend to us. You mustn’t be otherwise. We’ll draw Vale Royal coverts for cubs next October. Mind you’re sound about Pug.”
“May I ask what Lord Roxhall subscribed?”
“Fifty guineas,” said the M. F. H. truthfully.
Mr. Massarene planted his legs a little further apart and thrust out his stomach.
“I’ll give four fifties to the dogs,” he said with grandeur.
“The dogs!” ejaculated the marquis; but he restrained his emotions and grasped his new subscriber’s hand cordially.
“The Kennels and the Cathedral got the same measure,” he thought with amusement, as he nodded good-humoredly to the crowd below and entered the hotel to get a nip of something warm.
“Deuced clever of the Bishop; I shouldn’t have thought of making the cad ‘part.’ What an eye the saints always have on the money-bags,” he thought as he drank some rum-punch.