“Remember,” said the Governor, “you must get us the best blood in England—real, dainty hounds—expense no object, but don't trust your own judgment. Present my letters of introduction, and take what they give you.”
The Inspector presented his letters in a society where they make much of horses, more of hounds, and are tolerably civil to men who can ride. They passed him from house to house, mounted him according to his merits, and fed him, after five years of goat chop and Worcester sauce, perhaps a thought too richly.
The seat or castle where he made his great coup does not much matter. Four Masters of Foxhounds were at table, and in a mellow hour the Inspector told them stories of the Gihon Hunt. He ended: “Ben said I wasn't to trust my own judgment about hounds, but I think there ought to be a special tariff for Empire-makers.”
As soon as his hosts could speak, they reassured him on this point.
“And now tell us about your first puppy-show all over again,” said one.
“And about the earth-stoppin'. Was that all Ben's own invention?” said another.
“Wait a moment,” said a large, clean-shaven man—not an M.F.H.—at the end of the table. “Are your villagers habitually beaten by your Governor when they fail to stop foxes' holes?”
The tone and the phrase were enough even if, as the Inspector confessed afterwards, the big, blue double-chinned man had not looked so like Beagle-boy. He took him on for the honour of Ethiopia.
“We only hunt twice a week—sometimes three times. I've never known a man chastised more than four times a week unless there's a bye.”
The large loose-lipped man flung his napkin down, came round the table, cast himself into the chair next the Inspector, and leaned forward earnestly, so that he breathed in the Inspector's face.