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in your life*9. However tedious he may have been,
the Ringwcll field wouldn't have been the same
without him.

Many an exuberant voice and lively countenance
I could revive from that vanished cavalcade. But I
can't help thinking that the best man of them all was
"Gentleman George", as we called him. George
was a grey-haired groom; Mr. Clampton, his middle-
aged master, was "something in the City"a natty
untalkativc little man, who came out in queerly cut
clothes and a low-crowned hat. Mr. Clampton kept
three stout-hearted weight-carriers, but he seldom
hunted more than one day a week. George put in
as many clays as possible; he called it "keeping the
guv'nor's 'osses well in work". No day was too long
and no fence too hairy for George and the guv'nor's
'osses. At the most remote meets he would trot up
his fine-featured open face subdued to the decorum
of servitude and a jolly twinkle for ever lurking in his
keen eyes. (He was a man who could condense more
meaning into a single wink than most political
speakers can put into a peroration.) Always he had
his free and easy hail for the hunt-servants (to whom
he could generally give some useful information, dur-
ing the day); for the gentry he reserved a respectful
rap of his hat-brim and a sonorous "Mornin', sir".
However curt his utterances were, the tones of his
voice seemed to imply the underlying richness and
vigour of his vitality. He knew every inch of the
country backwards, and the short-tailed grey who
was his favourite had done fourteen seasons with
those hounds since Mr. Clampton first bought him
as a five-year-old from a farm in County Waterford.

The great joke about George was his method of
acting as second horseman when his worthy master