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a better job of tying my white stock that morning.
Tying a stock was very difficult, especially as I didn't
know how to do it. Mr. Gaffikin's was wonderful,
and I wished I knew him well enough to ask him how
the effect was produced.

I was keen to see what the new Master of the Pot-
ford was like. Dixon had heard quite a lot about him.
His name was Guy Warder, and he was a middle-aged
man who hunted the hounds himself and did every-
thing as cheaply as possible. He bought the most
awful old screws for next to nothing at Tattersalls,
made his stablemen ride them all the way down from
London to save the expense of a horse-box, and
brought them out hunting next day. It seemed that
the Hunt was already divided into factions for and
against him, and it was doubtful whether he would
be allowed to hunt the country another season. It
was said that he was a bad rider and always held on to
the pommel of his saddle when jumping his fences.
It was also rumoured that he sometimes got very
drunk. People complained that he was slow, and
often drew the coverts on foot. But he was. popular
with the farmers, and had been killing an abnormal
number of foxes.

There he was, anyhow, sitting low down in the
saddle among his hounds on a patch of grass in front
of the Bull Inn. He was a dumpy little man with a
surly red face, and he wore a coat that had once been
scarlet and was now plum-coloured. He was on a
good-looking horse, but the whips were mounted on
under-bred and raw-boned animals which might
well have been sent to the kennels for the hounds to
eat. The hounds were dull coated and hungry
looking. Evidently Mr. Guy Warder cared nothing
for smartness.