as to their doings, that he would take as a compliment.  It was they who were there to do the work of the day, which horses and men could only look at.  He was a sincere, honest, taciturn, and withal, affectionate man, who could on an occasion be very angry with those who offended him.  He knew well what he could do, and never attempted that which was beyond his power.  “How are you, Mr. Harkaway?” said Harry.

“How are you, Mr. Annesley? how are you?” said the master, with all the grace of which he was capable.  But Harry caught a tone in his voice which he thought implied displeasure.  And Mr. Harkaway had in truth heard the story,—­how Harry had been discarded at Buston because he had knocked the man down in the streets at night-time and had then gone away.  After that Mr. Harkaway toddled off, and Harry sat and frowned with embittered heart.

“Well, Malt-and-hops, and how are you?” This came from a fast young banker who lived in the neighborhood, and who thus intended to show his familiarity with the brewer; but when he saw Annesley, he turned round and rode away.  “Scaly trick that fellow played the other day.  He knocked a fellow down, and, when he thought that he was dead, he lied about it like old boots.”  All of which made itself intelligible to Harry.  He told himself that he had always hated that banker.

“Why do you let such a fellow as that call you Malt-and-hops?” he said to Joshua.

“What,—­young Florin?  He’s a very good fellow, and doesn’t mean anything.”

“A vulgar cad, I should say.”

Then he rode on in silence till he was addressed by an old gentleman of the county who had known his father for the last thirty years.  The old gentleman had had nothing about him to recommend him either to Harry’s hatred or love till he spoke; and after that Harry hated him.  “How d’you do, Mr. Annesley?” said the old gentleman, and then rode on.  Harry knew that the old man had condemned him as the others had done, or he would never have called him Mr. Annesley.  He felt that he was “blown upon” in his own county, as well as by the Ingoldsbys down in Kent.

They had but a moderate day’s sport, going a considerable distance in search of it, till an incident arose which gave quite an interest to the field generally, and nearly brought Joshua Thoroughbung into a scrape.  They were drawing a covert which was undoubtedly the property of their own hunt,—­or rather just going to draw it,—­when all of a sudden they became aware that every hound in the pack was hunting.  Mr. Harkaway at once sprung from his usual cold, apathetic manner into full action.  But they who knew him well could see that it was not the excitement of joy.  He was in an instant full of life, but it was not the life of successful enterprise.  He was perturbed and unhappy, and his huntsman, Dillon,—­a silent, cunning, not very popular man, who would obey his master in everything,—­began to move about rapidly, and to be at his wit’s end.  The younger men prepared themselves for a run,—­one of those sudden, short, decisive spurts which come at the spur of the moment, and on which a man, if he is not quite awake to the demands of the moment, is very apt to be left behind.  But the old stagers had their eyes on Mr. Harkaway, and knew that there was something amiss.