Mr. Carteret

“It’s one of the smartest packs in England”

Mr. Carteret
and Others

by

David Gray
Author of “Gallops I,” “Gallops II,” etc.

New York
The Century Co.
1910

Copyright, 1899, 1907, 1908, 1909, 1910,
by The Century Co.

Copyright, 1904, 1905, by The Metropolitan
Magazine Company
——
Published March, 1910

THE DE VINNE PRESS

To M. G. G.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

MR. CARTERET AND HIS
FELLOW AMERICANS ABROAD

I MR. CARTERET AND HIS FELLOW AMERICANS ABROAD

“It must have been highly interesting,” observed Mrs. Archie Brawle; “so much pleasanter than a concert.”

“Rather!” replied Lord Frederic. “It was ripping!”

Mrs. Ascott-Smith turned to Mr. Carteret. She had been listening to Lord Frederic Westcote, who had just come down from town where he had seen the Wild West show. “Is it so?” she asked. “Have you ever seen them?” By “them” she meant the Indians.

Mr. Carteret nodded.

“It seems so odd,” continued Mrs. Archie Brawle, “that they should ride without saddles. Is it a pose?”

“No, I fancy not,” replied Lord Frederic.

“They must get very tired without stirrups,” insisted Mrs. Archie. “But perhaps they never ride very long at a time.”

“That is possible,” said Lord Frederic doubtfully. “They are only on about twenty minutes in the show.”

Mr. Pringle, the curate, who had happened in to pay his monthly call upon Mrs. Ascott-Smith, took advantage of the pause. “Of course, I am no horseman,” he began apprehensively, “and I have never seen the red Indians, either in their native wilds or in a show, but I have read not a little about them, and I have gathered that they almost live on horseback.”

Major Hammerslea reached toward the tea table for another muffin and hemmed. “It is a very different thing,” he said with heavy impressiveness. “It is a very different thing.”

The curate looked expectant, as if believing that his remarks were going to be noticed. But nothing was farther from the Major’s mind.

“What is so very different?” inquired Mrs. Ascott-Smith, after a pause had made it clear that the Major had ignored Pringle.

“It is one thing, my dear Madame, to ride a stunted, half-starved pony, as you say, ‘bareback,’ and another thing to ride a conditioned British hunter (he pronounced it huntaw) without a saddle. I must say that the latter is an impossibility.” The oracle came to an end and the material Major began on the muffin.

There was an approving murmur of assent. The Major was the author of “Schooling and Riding British Hunters”; however, it was not only his authority which swayed the company, but individual conviction. Of the dozen people in the room, excepting Pringle, all rode to hounds with more or less enthusiasm, and no one had ever seen any one hunting without a saddle and no one had ever experienced any desire to try the experiment. Obviously it was an absurdity.

“Nevertheless,” observed Lord Frederic, “I must say their riding was very creditable—quite as good as one sees on any polo field in England.”

Major Hammerslea looked at him severely, as if his youth were not wholly an excuse. “It is, as I said,” he observed. “It is one thing to ride an American pony and another to ride a British hunter. One requires horsemanship, the other does not. And horsemanship,” he continued, “which properly is the guiding of a horse across country, requires years of study and experience.”

Lord Frederic looked somewhat unconvinced but he said nothing.

“Of course the dear Major (she called it deah Majaw) is unquestionably right,” said Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

“Undoubtedly,” said Mr. Carteret. “I suppose that he has often seen Indians ride?”

“Have you often seen these Indians ride?” inquired Mrs. Ascott-Smith of the Major.

“Do you mean Indians or the Red Men of North America?” replied the Major. “And do you mean upon ponies in a show or upon British hunters?”

“Which do you mean?” asked Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

“I suppose that I mean American Indians,” said Mr. Carteret, “and either upon ponies or upon British hunters.”

“No,” said the Major, “I have not. Have you?”

“Not upon British hunters,” said Mr. Carteret.

“But do you think that they could?” inquired Lord Frederic.

“It would be foolish of me to express an opinion,” replied Mr. Carteret, “because, in the first place, I have never seen them ride British hunters over fences—”

“They would come off at the first obstacle,” observed the Major, more in sorrow than in anger.

“And in the second place,” continued Mr. Carteret, “I am perhaps naturally prejudiced in behalf of my fellow countrymen.”

Mrs. Ascott-Smith looked at him anxiously. His sister had married a British peer. “But you Americans are quite distinct from the red Indians,” she said. “We quite understand that nowadays. To be sure, my dear Aunt—” She stopped.

“Rather!” said Mrs. Archie Brawle. “You don’t even intermarry with them, do you?”

“That is a matter of personal taste,” said Mr. Carteret. “There is no law against it.”

“But nobody that one knows—” began Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

“There was John Rolfe,” said Mr. Carteret; “he was a very well known chap.”

“Do you know him?” asked Mrs. Brawle.

The curate sniggered. His hour of triumph had come. “Rolfe is dead,” he said.

“Really!” said Mrs. Brawle, coldly. “It had quite slipped my mind. You see I never read the papers during the hunting. But is his wife received?”

“I believe that she was,” said Mr. Carteret.

The curate was still sniggering and Mrs. Brawle put her glass in her eye and looked at him. Then she turned to Mr. Carteret. “But all this,” she said, “of course, has nothing to do with the question. Do you think that these red Indians could ride bareback across our country?”

“As I said before,” replied Mr. Carteret, “it would be silly of me to express an opinion, but I should be interested in seeing them try it.”

“I have a topping idea!” cried Lord Frederic. He was an enthusiastic, simple-minded fellow.

“You must tell us,” exclaimed Mrs. Ascott-Smith.

“Let us have them down, and take them hunting!”

“How exciting!” exclaimed Mrs. Ascott-Smith. “What sport!”

The Major looked at her reprovingly. “It would be as I said,” he observed.

“But it would be rather interesting,” said Mrs. Brawle.

“It might,” said the Major, “it might be interesting.”

“It would be ripping!” said Lord Frederic. “But how can we manage it?”

“I’ll mount them,” said the Major with a grim smile. “My word! They shall have the pick of my stable though I have to spend a month rebreaking horses that have run away.”

“But it isn’t the difficulty of mounting them,” said Lord Frederic. “You see I’ve never met any of these chaps.” He turned to Mr. Carteret with a sudden inspiration. “Are any of them friends of yours?” he asked.

Mrs. Ascott-Smith looked anxiously at Mr. Carteret, as if she feared that it would develop that some of the people in the show were his cousins.

“No,” he replied, “I don’t think so, although I may have met some of them in crossing the reservations. But I once went shooting with Grady, one of the managers of the show.”

“Better yet!” said Lord Frederic. “Do you think that he would come and bring some of them down?” he asked.

“I think he would,” said Mr. Carteret. He knew that the showman was strong in Grady—as well as the sportsman.

The Major rose to go to the billiard room. “I have one piece of advice to give you,” he said. “This prank is harmless enough, but establish a definite understanding with this fellow that you are not to be liable in damages for personal injuries which his Indians may receive. Explain to him that it is not child’s play and have him put it in writing.”

“You mean to have him execute a kind of release?” said Mr. Carteret.

“Precisely that,” said the Major. “I was once sued for twenty pounds by a groom that fell off my best horse and let him run away, and damme, the fellow recovered.” He bowed to the ladies and left the room.

“Of course we can fix all that up,” said Lord Frederic. “The old chap is a bit overcautious nowadays, but how can we get hold of this fellow Grady?”

“I’ll wire him at once, if you wish,” said Mr. Carteret, and he went to the writing table. “When do you want him to come down?” he asked, as he began to write.

“We might take them out with the Quorn on Saturday,” said Lord Frederic, “but the meet is rather far for us. Perhaps it would be better to have them on Thursday with Charley Ploversdale’s hounds.”

Mr. Carteret hesitated a moment. “Wouldn’t Ploversdale be apt to be fussy about experiments? He’s rather conservative, you know, about the way people are turned out. I saw him send a man home one day who was out without a hat. It was an American who was afraid that hats made his hair come out.”

“Pish,” said Lord Frederic, “Charley Ploversdale is mild as a dove.”

“Suit yourself,” said Mr. Carteret. “I’ll make it Thursday. One more question,” he added. “How many shall I ask him to bring down?” At this moment the Major came into the room again. He had mislaid his eyeglasses.

“I should think that a dozen would be about the right number,” said Lord Frederic, replying to Mr. Carteret. “It would be very imposing.”

“Too many!” said the Major. “We must mount them on good horses and I don’t want my entire stable ruined by men who have never lepped a fence.”

“I think the Major is right about the matter of numbers,” said Mr. Carteret. “How would three do?”

“Make it three,” said the Major.

Before dinner was over a reply came from Grady saying that he and three bucks would be pleased to arrive Thursday morning prepared for a hunting party.

This took place on Monday, and at various times during Tuesday and Wednesday Mr. Carteret gave the subject thought. By Thursday morning his views had ripened. He ordered his tea and eggs to be served in his room and came down a little past ten dressed in knickerbockers and an old shooting coat. He wandered into the dining-room and found Mrs. Ascott-Smith sitting by the fire entertaining Lord Frederic, as he went to and from the sideboard in search of things to eat.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Carteret, hoarsely.

Lord Frederic looked around and as he noticed Mr. Carteret’s clothes his face showed surprise.

“Hello!” he said, “you had better hurry and change, or you will be late. We have to start in half an hour to meet Grady.”

Mr. Carteret coughed. “I don’t think that I can go out to-day. It is a great disappointment.”

“Not going hunting?” exclaimed Mrs. Ascott-Smith. “What is the matter?”

“I have a bad cold,” said Mr. Carteret miserably.

“But, my dear fellow,” exclaimed Lord Frederic, “it will do your cold a world of good!”

“Not a cold like mine,” said Mr. Carteret.

“But this is the day, don’t you know?” said Lord Frederic. “How am I going to manage things without you?”

“All that you have to do is to meet them at the station and take them to the meet,” said Mr. Carteret. “Everything else has been arranged.”

“But I’m awfully disappointed,” said Lord Frederic. “I had counted on you to help, don’t you see, and introduce them to Ploversdale. It would be more graceful for an American to do it than for me. You understand?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret, “I understand. It’s a great disappointment, but I must bear it philosophically.”

Mrs. Ascott-Smith looked at him sympathetically, and he coughed twice. “You are suffering,” she said. “Freddy, you really must not urge him to expose himself. Have you a pain here?” she inquired, touching herself in the region of the pleura.

“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret, “it is just there, but I daresay that it will soon be better.”

“I am afraid not,” said his hostess. “This is the way pneumonia begins. You must take a medicine that I have. They say that it is quite wonderful for inflammatory colds. I’ll send Hodgson for it,” and she touched the bell.

“Please, please don’t take that trouble,” entreated Mr. Carteret.

“But you must take it,” said Mrs. Ascott-Smith. “They call it Broncholine. You pour it in a tin and inhale it or swallow it, I forget which, but it’s very efficacious. They used it on Teddy’s pony when it was sick. The little creature died, but that was because they gave it too much, or not enough, I forget which.”

Hodgson appeared and Mrs. Ascott-Smith gave directions about the Broncholine.

“I thank you very much,” said Mr. Carteret humbly. “I’ll go to my room and try it at once.”

“That’s a good chap!” said Lord Frederic, “perhaps you will feel so much better that you can join us.”

“Perhaps,” said Mr. Carteret gloomily, “or it may work as it did on the pony.” And he left the room.

After Hodgson had departed from his chamber leaving explicit directions as to how and how not to use the excellent Broncholine, Mr. Carteret poured a quantity of it from the bottle and threw it out of the window, resolving to be on the safe side. Then he looked at his boots and his pink coat and white leathers, which were laid out upon the bed. “I don’t think there can be any danger,” he thought, “if I turn up after they have started. I loathe stopping in all day.” He dressed leisurely, ordered his second horse to be sent on, and some time after the rest of the household had gone to the meet he sallied forth. As he knew the country and the coverts which Lord Ploversdale would draw, he counted on joining the tail of the hunt, thus keeping out of sight. He inquired of a rustic if he had seen hounds pass and receiving “no” for an answer, he jogged on at a faster trot, fearing that the hunt might have gone away in some other direction.

As he came around a bend in the road, he saw four women riding toward him, and as they drew near, he saw that they were Lady Violet Weatherbone and her three daughters. These young ladies were known as the Three Guardsmen, a sobriquet not wholly inappropriate; for, as Lord Frederic described them, they were “big-boned, upstanding fillies,” between twenty-five and thirty and very hard goers across any country, and always together.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Carteret, bowing. “I suppose the hounds are close by?” It was a natural assumption, as Lady Violet on hunting days was never very far from the hounds.

“I do not know,” she responded, and her tone further implied that she did not care.

Mr. Carteret hesitated a moment. “Is anything the matter?” he asked. “Has anything happened?”

“Yes,” said Lady Violet frankly, “something has happened.” Here the daughters modestly turned their horses away.

“Some one,” continued Lady Violet, “brought savages to the meet.” She paused impressively.

“Not really!” said Mr. Carteret. It was all that he could think of to say.

“Yes,” said Lady Violet, “and while it would have mattered little to me, it was impossible—” She motioned with her head toward the three maidens, and paused.

“Forgive me,” said Mr. Carteret, “but do I quite understand?”

“At the first I thought,” said Lady Violet, “that they were attired in painted fleshings, but upon using my glass, it was clear that I was mistaken. Otherwise, I should have brought them away at the first moment.”

“I see,” said Mr. Carteret. “It is most unfortunate!”

“It is, indeed!” said Lady Violet; “but the matter will not be allowed to drop. They were brought to the meet by that young profligate, Lord Frederic Westcote.”

“You amaze me,” said Mr. Carteret. He bowed, started his horse, and jogged along for five minutes, then he turned to the right upon a crossroad and suddenly found himself with hounds. They were feathering excitedly about the mouth of a tile drain into which the fox had evidently gone. No master, huntsmen or whips were in sight, but sitting wet and mud-daubed upon horses dripping with muddy water were Grady dressed in cowboy costume and three naked Indians. Mr. Carteret glanced about over the country and understood. They had swum the brook at the place where it ran between steep clay banks and the rest of the field had gone around to the bridge. As he looked toward the south, he saw Lord Ploversdale riding furiously toward him followed by Smith, the huntsman. Grady had not recognized Mr. Carteret turned out in pink as he was, and for the moment the latter decided to remain incognito.

Before Lord Ploversdale, Master of Fox-hounds, reached the road, he began waving his whip. He appeared excited. “What do you mean by riding upon my hounds?” he shouted. He said this in several ways with various accompanying phrases, but neither the Indians nor Grady seemed to notice him. It occurred to Mr. Carteret that, although Lord Ploversdale’s power of expression was wonderful for England, it nevertheless fell short of Arizona standards. Then, however, he noticed that Grady was absorbed in adjusting a kodak camera, with which he was evidently about to take a picture of the Indians alone with the hounds. He drew back in order both to avoid being in the field of the picture and to avoid too close proximity with Lord Ploversdale as he came over the fence into the road.

“What do you mean, sir!” shouted the enraged Master of Fox-hounds, as he pulled up his horse.

“A little more in the middle,” replied Grady, still absorbed in taking the picture.

“A little more in the middle”

Lord Ploversdale hesitated. He was speechless with surprise for the moment.

Grady pressed the button and began putting up the machine.

“What do you mean by riding on my hounds, you and these persons?” demanded Lord Ploversdale.

“We didn’t,” said Grady amicably, “but if your bunch of dogs don’t know enough to keep out of the way of a horse, they ought to learn.”

Lord Ploversdale looked aghast and Smith, the huntsman, pinched himself to make sure that he was not dreaming.

“Many thanks for your advice,” said Lord Ploversdale. “May I inquire who you and your friends may be?”

“I’m James Grady,” said that gentleman. “This,” he said, pointing to the Indian nearest, “is Chief Hole-in-the-Ground of the Olgallala Sioux. Him in the middle is Mr. Jim Snake, and the one beyond is Chief Skytail, a Pawnee.”

“Thank you, that is very interesting,” said Lord Ploversdale, with polite irony. “Now will you kindly take them home?”

“See here,” said Grady, strapping the camera to his saddle, “I was invited to this hunt, regular, and if you hand me out any more hostile talk—” He paused.

“Who invited you?” inquired Lord Ploversdale.

“One of your own bunch,” said Grady, “Lord Frederic Westcote. I’m no butterin.”

“Your language is difficult to understand,” said Lord Ploversdale. “Where is Lord Frederic Westcote?”

Mr. Carteret had watched the field approaching as fast as whip and spur could drive them, and in the first flight he noticed Lord Frederic and the Major. For this reason he still hesitated about thrusting himself into the discussion. It seemed that the interference of a third party could only complicate matters, inasmuch as Lord Frederic would so soon be upon the spot.

Lord Ploversdale looked across the field impatiently. “I’ve no doubt, my good fellow, that Lord Frederic Westcote brought you here and I’ll see him about it, but kindly take these fellows home. They’ll kill all my hounds.”

“Now you’re beginning to talk reasonable,” said Grady. “I’ll discuss with you.”

The words were hardly out of his mouth before hounds gave tongue riotously and went off. The fox had slipped out of the other end of the drain and old Archer had found the line.

As if shot out of a gun the three Indians dashed at the stake-and-bound fence on the farther side of the road, joyously using their heavy quirts on the Major’s thoroughbreds. Skytail’s horse being hurried too much, blundered his take-off, hit above the knees and rolled over on the Chief who was sitting tight. There was a stifled grunt and then the Pawnee word “Go-dam!”

Hole-in-the-Ground looked back and laughed one of the few laughs of his life. It was a joke which he could understand. Then he used the quirt again to make the most of his advantage.

“That one is finished,” said Lord Ploversdale gratefully. But as the words were in his mouth, Skytail rose with his horse, vaulted up and was away.

The M. F. H. followed over the fence shouting at Smith to whip off the hounds. But the hounds were going too fast. They had got a view of the fox and three whooping horsemen were behind them driving them on.

The first flight of the field followed the M. F. H. out of the road and so did Mr. Carteret, and presently he found himself riding between Lord Frederic and the Major. They were both a bit winded and had evidently come fast.

“I say,” exclaimed Lord Frederic, “where did you come from?”

“I was cured by the Broncholine,” said Mr. Carteret, “amazing stuff!”

“Is your horse fresh?” asked Lord Frederic.

“Yes,” replied Mr. Carteret, “I happened upon them at the road.”

“Then go after that man Grady,” said Lord Frederic, “and implore him to take those beggars home. They have been riding on hounds for twenty minutes.”

“Were they able,” asked Mr. Carteret, “to stay with their horses at the fences?”

“Stay with their horses!” puffed the Major.

“Go on like a good chap,” said Lord Frederic, “stop that fellow or I shall be expelled from the hunt; perhaps put in jail. Was Ploversdale vexed?” he added.

“I should judge by his language,” said Mr. Carteret, “that he was vexed.”

“Hurry on,” said Lord Frederic. “Put your spurs in.”

Mr. Carteret gave his horse its head and he shot to the front, but Grady was nearly a field in the lead and it promised to be a long chase as he was on the Major’s black thoroughbred. The cowboy rode along with a loose rein and an easy balance seat. At his fences he swung his hat and cheered. He seemed to be enjoying himself and Mr. Carteret was anxious lest he might begin to shoot for pure delight. Such a demonstration would have been misconstrued. Nearly two hundred yards ahead at the heels of the pack galloped the Indians, and in the middle distance between them and Grady rode Lord Ploversdale and Smith vainly trying to overtake the hounds and whip them off. Behind and trailing over a mile or more came the field and the rest of the hunt servants in little groups, all awestruck at what had happened. It was unspeakable that Lord Ploversdale’s hounds which had been hunted by his father and his grandfather should be so scandalized.

Mr. Carteret finally got within a length of Grady and hailed him.

“Hello, Carty,” said Grady, “glad to see you. I thought you were sick. What can I do? They’ve stampeded. But it’s a great ad. for the show, isn’t it? I’ve got four reporters in a hack on the road.”

“Forget about the show,” said Mr. Carteret. “This isn’t any laughing matter. Ploversdale’s hounds are one of the smartest packs in England. You don’t understand.”

“It will make all the better story in the papers,” said Grady.

“No, it won’t,” said Mr. Carteret. “They won’t print it. It’s like a blasphemy upon the Church.”

“Whoop!” yelled Grady, as they tore through a bullfinch.

“Call them off,” said Mr. Carteret, straightening his hat.

“But I can’t catch ’em,” said Grady, and that was the truth.

Lord Ploversdale, however, had been gaining on the Indians, and by the way in which he clubbed his heavy crop, loaded at the butt, it was apparent that he meant to put an end to the proceedings if he could.

Just then hounds swept over the crest of a green hill and as they went down the other side, they viewed the fox in the field beyond. He was in distress, and it looked as if the pack would kill in the open. They were running wonderfully together, the traditional blanket would have covered them, and in the natural glow of pride which came over the M. F. H., he loosened his grip upon the crop. But as the hounds viewed the fox so did the three sons of the wilderness who were following close behind. From the hilltop fifty of the hardest going men in England saw Hole-in-the-Ground flogging his horse with the heavy quirt which hung from his wrist. The outraged British hunter shot forward scattering hounds to right and left, flew a ditch and hedge and was close on the fox who had stopped to make a last stand. Without drawing rein, the astonished onlookers saw the lean Indian suddenly disappear under the neck of his horse and almost instantly swing back into his seat waving a brown thing above his head. Hole-in-the-Ground had caught the fox!

“Most unprecedented!” Mr. Carteret heard the Major exclaim. He pulled up his horse, as the field did theirs, and waited apprehensively. He saw Hole-in-the-Ground circle around, jerk the Major’s five hundred guinea hunter to a standstill close to Lord Ploversdale and address him. He was speaking in his own language.

As the Chief went on, he saw Grady smile.

“He says,” said Grady translating, “that the white chief can eat the fox if he wants him. He’s proud himself bein’ packed with store grub.”

The English onlookers heard and beheld with blank faces. It was beyond them.

The M. F. H. bowed stiffly as Hole-in-the-Ground’s offer was made known to him. He regarded them a moment in thought. A vague light was breaking in upon him. “Aw, thank you,” he said, “thanks awfully. Smith, take the fox. Good afternoon!”

Then he wheeled his horse, called the hounds in with his horn and trotted out to the road that led to the kennels. Lord Ploversdale, though he had never been out of England, was cast in a large mold.

The three Indians sat on their panting horses, motionless, stolidly facing the curious gaze of the crowd; or rather they looked through the crowd, as the lion with the high breeding of the desert looks through and beyond the faces that stare and gape before the bars of his cage.

“Most amazing! Most amazing!” muttered the Major.

“It is,” said Mr. Carteret, “if you have never been away from this.” He made a sweeping gesture over the restricted English scenery, pampered and brought up by hand.

“Been away from this?” repeated the Major. “I don’t understand.”

Mr. Carteret turned to him. How could he explain it?

“With us,” he began, laying an emphasis on the “us.” Then he stopped. “Look into their eyes,” he said hopelessly.

The Major looked at him blankly. How could he, Major Hammerslea of “The Blues,” tell what those inexplicable dark eyes saw beyond the fenced tillage! What did he know of the brown, bare, illimitable range under the noonday sun, the evening light on far, silent mountains, the starlit desert!

HOW MR. CARTERET PROPOSED

II HOW MR. CARTERET PROPOSED

Barclay slowly guided his horse through the mounted throng to the spot where Mr. Carteret was sitting on a chestnut thoroughbred horse watching hounds as they came straggling out of the spinney. They had drawn blank. The fox was not at home. When Barclay reached his friend he pulled up casually as if he had come for no express purpose, and said nothing. After a few moments he began, as if an idea had just come to him:

“It has occurred to me, Carty,” he said, “that if we brought American horses to England, we could make a lot of money.”

“That idea has occurred to others,” replied Mr. Carteret, without turning his head. He was absorbed in the enjoyable discovery that the scene before him was like a hunting-print. The browns of the wood and bracken, the winter green of the hill pastures, the scarlet coats, the gray sky of the English winter, were all happily true to art. “As I say,” he went on, “the idea has occurred to others, but I have never heard that any one made money.”

“That is because they haven’t sent over good horses,” said Barclay. “Suppose we brought over only such thoroughbred horses as we raise on the Wyoming ranch.”

“I don’t think it would make any difference,” said Mr. Carteret. “There is a prejudice against American horses.”

“Exactly,” said Barclay; “and the way to meet it would be to have them ridden and handled by a well-known Englishman. In fact, I have the man in mind.”

“Who?”

“Young Granvil,” was the answer.

Why Barclay should be interested in making money out of a horse business or in any other way had perplexed Mr. Carteret, for it was not according to his habits of mind. Now it became clear to him, and he suppressed a cynical smile. “I don’t suppose Lady Withers has discussed this matter with you,” he observed.

“In a general way, yes,” replied Barclay; “but it was my suggestion.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Carteret.

Barclay paused awkwardly for a moment, then he said: “Why shouldn’t I talk it over with Lady Withers? She is a very intelligent woman, and a good judge of a horse.”

“An excellent judge of almost everything,” said his friend, “and especially of young men. My son,” he continued (Barclay was five years his junior), “it is commendable of Lady Withers to provide for the Hon. Cecil James Montague Granvil. He is her nephew and flat broke, and he needs people to look after him because he is almost less than half-witted. But that is no reason why you should be the person to look after him.”

“You are unjust to Cecil,” said Barclay, “and most unkind in your insinuations as to Lady Withers. This was my own idea entirely, and I think it would be profitable for both of us. You know you are always complaining because I don’t take more interest in the ranches.”

“If I have been unkind to Lady Withers,” said Mr. Carteret, “I am going to be much more so.”

Barclay looked challengingly. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

“Lady Withers,” said Mr. Carteret, “is a widow, aged forty-four,—you can verify that in Burke,—a man-eater by temperament and habit. You are twelve years younger than she, with a great deal more money than is good for you. Whether she intends to marry you I don’t pretend to know, but it is not unlikely. At any rate, you are unquestionably on the list as a source of income and supply.”

Somewhat to Mr. Carteret’s surprise, Barclay listened calmly.

“Do you really think Lady Withers considers me eligible?” he asked.

“She does, if she has any true conception of your securities.”

Barclay smiled a pleased smile. “I shall not stop to discuss Lady Withers’s age,” he said. “Have you any objections to her aside from that?”

Mr. Carteret looked at him with outward calm, but inwardly he was filled with horror. “Are you engaged to her?” he asked.

“I am not,” said Barclay.

“Then I shall tell you,” he went on, “that I have objections. Their nature I have no time to disclose at present further than to say that any woman who puts a nice girl like her niece upon the horse she is riding to-day is a bad lot.”

Barclay’s expression changed. “What is the matter with the horse?” he demanded.

“I’m not sure that I know all that is the matter with him,” said Carty, “but I wouldn’t ride him over a fence for the Bank of England.”

“Do you know that, or are you just talking?” said Barclay.

“I ought to know,” said the other. “I owned him. After what he did to me, I ought to have shot him. We’d better jog along,” he added, “or we shall get pocketed and never get through the gate.”

The huntsman had called his hounds and was carrying them to the next cover, and Mr. Carteret set his horse to a trot and struggled for a place in the vast scarlet-coated throng that surged toward the gate leading out of the meadow. At the same time Barclay disappeared.

The vast scarlet-coated throng that surged toward the gate

“I hope he tells Lady Withers about the horse,” said Mr. Carteret to himself. “If she doesn’t keep her hands off him, I shall tell her several things myself.”

Just at that moment the eddying currents of the human maelstrom brought him alongside a slender little figure in a weather-beaten habit and a bowler hat jammed down to her ears over a mass of golden hair. Although the knot of hair was twisted cruelly tight, and although the hat did its best to cover it, even a man’s eye could see that it was profuse and wonderful. It was unnecessary for him to look at the horse. He knew that he was beside Lady Mary Granvil, Lady Withers’s niece. “Good afternoon,” he said and she turned toward him. It was a sad rather than a pretty face, but one’s attention never rested long upon it, for a pair of gray eyes shone from under the brows, and after the first glance one looked at the eyes.

“Good afternoon,” he said again. The eyes rather disconcerted him. “Do you happen to know anything about that horse you’re riding?”

“It’s one that my aunt bought quite recently,” said the girl. “She and Cecil wished me to try it.”

“I hope you won’t think me rude,” said Mr. Carteret, “but I once owned him, and I think you’ll find this horse of mine a much pleasanter beast to ride. I’ll have the saddles changed.”

Lady Mary looked at him, and a light flashed in her gray eyes. “You are very good,” she said, “but this is my aunt’s horse, and my brother told me to ride it.” She forged ahead, and disappeared in the currents of the crowd.

“I did that very badly,” Mr. Carteret said to himself, and fell into the line and waited for his turn at the gate.

He and Barclay, Lady Withers, and many other people were stopping the week-end at Mrs. Ascott-Smith’s, who had Chilliecote Abbey, and when he got home that afternoon he went at once to the great library, where the ceremony of tea was celebrated. The daylight was fading from the mullioned windows as it had faded on winter afternoons for three hundred years. Candles burned on the vacant card-tables, while the occupants of the room gathered in the glow of the great Elizabethan fireplace and conversed and ate. As he approached the circle, Lady Withers put down her tea cup.

“Did you have another run after we pulled out?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mr. Carteret; “rather a good one.”

Suddenly her eyes began to beam. There was a display of red lips and white teeth, and a sort of general facial radiation. It was an effort usually fatal to guardsmen, but it affected Mr. Carteret like the turning on of an electric heater, and he backed away as if he felt the room were warm enough. “I am so glad,” she said.

“Tell me,” she went on in her soft, delightfully modulated voice, “aren’t you interested with Mr. Barclay in some farms?”

“We own two ranches together,” said Mr. Carteret.

“Yes, that was it,” said Lady Withers; “and you raise horses on them?”

Mr. Carteret apprehended what was coming. “Yes; ranch horses,” he said dryly.

“And such good ones, as Mr. Barclay was telling me,” said Lady Withers. “He made me quite enthusiastic with his account of it all, and he is so anxious to have dear Cecil manage them in England; but before Cecil decides one way or the other I want your advice.”

Mr. Carteret looked at her and stroked his mustache. His opportunity to save Barclay had come. “My advice would be worth very little,” he said; “but I can give you all the facts, and of course Barclay—well, he can’t.”

A shade of apprehension crossed Lady Withers’s face. “And why not?” she demanded.

“I should rather not go into that,” said Mr. Carteret. “Of course the great objection to the scheme is that it would be unprofitable for Mr. Granvil, because no one would buy our horses.”

“But wouldn’t they,” said Lady Withers, “if they were good ones?”

“Major Hammerslea can answer that question better than I,” said Mr. Carteret. He looked toward that great man and smiled. The Major was the author of “Schooling and Riding British Hunters,” and Mr. Carteret knew his views.

“No one,” said the Major, impressively, “would buy an American horse if he desired to make or possess a really good hunter.”

“But why advertise that they were American?” observed Lady Withers, blandly.

“How could you hide it?” said the Major.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Carteret.

“Furthermore,” observed the Major, his interest in the controversy growing, “the output of a single breeding institution would scarcely make it worth Cecil’s while to manage an agency for their distribution.”

“I think you don’t understand,” said Lady Withers, “that Mr. Carteret has a large place.”

“My friend the Duke of Westchester,” began the Major, “has in his breeding farm eight thousand acres—”

“But I’ve no doubt that Mr. Carteret’s is very nearly as large,” interrupted Lady Withers.

“I don’t think size has anything to do with it,” said Mr. Carteret, uneasily. “The fact is, we don’t raise the kind of horse that English dealers would buy.”

“I think size has much to do with it,” replied the Major.

“I wish,” said Lady Withers, “that you would tell Major Hammerslea exactly how large your farms are.”

“I don’t know exactly,” said Mr. Carteret, uneasily.

“But, about how large?” insisted Lady Withers.

“There is something over a million acres in the Texas piece,” said Mr. Carteret, with some embarrassment, “and something under six hundred thousand in Wyoming.”

Lady Withers and the Major both looked at him with eyes of amazement. But Lady Withers’s amazement was admiring.

“I thought so,” said she, calmly. The Major in silence walked over to the table and took a cigar. “Looking at it from all points of view,” she continued, “it would be just the thing for Cecil. He is intelligent with regard to horses.”

“But I don’t wish to go to Texas,” said the Hon. Cecil, who had joined the group. “They say the shootin’ ’s most moderate.”

“It isn’t necessary yet for you to go to Texas,” said Lady Withers, coldly. “Mr. Carteret and I are arranging to employ your talents in England.”

“Of course another objection,” said Mr. Carteret, “is that Granvil is too good a man to waste on such an occupation. The horse business is very confining. It’s an awful bore to be tied down.”

“You are absolutely right about that,” said the Hon. Cecil, with a burst of frankness. “You don’t know what a relief it is to be out of the Guards. Awfully confining life, the Guards.”

“I think,” said Lady Withers, apparently oblivious to the views of her nephew, “that Mr. Barclay takes rather the more businesslike view of these matters. It is he, I fancy, who looks after the affairs of your estates; and I should judge,” she continued, “that, after all, his advice to a young man like Cecil with a very moderate income would be wiser. I believe very much in an occupation for young men.”

Mr. Carteret saw that his time had come. He looked at Lady Withers and smiled sadly. “Of course I’m very fond of Barclay,” he said in a lower tone, “and of course he is an awfully charming, plausible boy—” Then he stopped, apparently because Major Hammerslea was returning with his cigar.

“What do you mean?” asked Lady Withers.

Mr. Carteret made no direct reply, but moved toward the piano, and Lady Withers followed. “It is best to speak plainly,” he said, “because, after all, business is business, as we say.”

“Exactly,” said Lady Withers. Her teeth had ceased to gleam. The radiance had left her face, though not the bloom upon it. Her large, beaming eyes had contracted. She looked twenty years older.

“The fact is,” said Mr. Carteret, steadily, “that Barclay is not the business manager of our ranches. He is not a business man at all. It is true that he still retains a certain interest in the ranch properties but he has been so unbusinesslike that everything he’s got is in the hands of a trustee. He gets his income monthly, like a remittance-man. He is not in actual want; but—”

“I see,” said Lady Withers, coldly. “I had misunderstood the situation.” She turned and crossed to one of the card-tables and sat down.