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was a spare-built middle-aged man in a faded pink
coat who scattered boisterous vociferations on every-
body within hail. "Morning, Master. Morning Mrs.
Moffat. Morning, Nigel!" His beaming recogni-
tions appeared to include the whole world in a sort of
New Year's Day greeting. And, "Hallo, Stephen
ole man/' he shouted, turning in our direction
so suddenly that his animal's rotund hind quarters
bumped the Rector's horse on his blind side and nearly
knocked him over. The collision culminated when
he grabbed my hand and wrung it heartily with the
words, "Why, Jack, my lad, I thought you were still
out in India!'3 I stared at him astonished, while his
exuberance became puzzled and apologetic.
"Is it Jack?" he asked, adding, with a loud laugh,
"No, it's some other young bloke after all. But
you're the living split of Steve's elder brother—say
what you like!"
In this way I became acquainted with one of
the most popular characters in the Hunt. Arthur
Brandwick was a doctor who had given up his small
country practice some years before. "Always merry
and bright" was his motto, and he now devoted his
bachelor energies to the pursuit of the fox and the
conversion of the human race to optimism.
A solemn purple-faced man, who had been eyeing
me as if he also had his doubts about my identity,
now came up and asked me for a sovereign. This
was Mr, Me Cosh, the Hunt secretary, and it was my
first experience of being "capped" as a stranger.
I produced the gold coin, but he very civilly returned
it when Stephen informed him that I was staying at
Just as these negotiations concluded, a chorus of
excited hallooings on the outskirts of the wood pro-