At last it was decided that a general meeting of the members of the hunt should be called together with the express object of getting rid of the Major.  The gentlemen of the neighbourhood felt that the Major was not to be borne, and the farmers were very much stronger against him than the gentlemen.  It had now become a settled belief among sporting men in England that the Major had with his own hands driven the nail into the horse’s foot.  Was it to be endured that the Runnymede farmers should ride to hounds under a master who had been guilty of such an iniquity as that?  The Staines and Egham Gazette, which had always supported the Runnymede hunt, declared in very plain terms that all who rode with the Major were enjoying their sport out of the plunder which had been extracted from Lord Silverbridge.  Then a meeting was called for Saturday, the eighteenth of December, to be held at that well-known sporting little inn the Bobtailed Fox.  The members of the hunt were earnestly called upon to attend.  It was,—­so said the printed document which was issued,—­the only means by which the hunt could be preserved.  If gentlemen who were interested did not put their shoulders to the wheel the Runnymede hunt must be regarded as a thing of the past.  One of the documents was sent to the Major with an intimation that if he wished to attend no objection would be made to his presence.  The chair would be taken at half-past twelve punctually at that popular and well-known old sportsman Mr Mahogany Topps.

Was ever the master of a hunt treated in such a way!  His presence not objected to!  As a rule the master of a hunt does not attend hunt meetings, because the matter to be discussed is generally that of the money to be subscribed for him, as to which it was as well that he should not hear the pros and cons.  But it is presumed that he is to be the hero of the hour, and that he is to be treated to his face, and spoken of behind his back, with love, admiration, and respect.  But now this matter was told his presence would be allowed!  And then this fox-hunting meeting was summoned for half-past twelve on a hunting day;—­when, as all the world knew, the hounds were to meet at eleven, twelve miles off!  Was ever anything so base? said the Major to himself.  But he resolved that he would be equal to the occasion.  He immediately issued cards to all the members, stating that on that day the meet had been changed from Croppingham Bushes, which was ever so much on the other side of Bagshot, to the Bobtailed Fox,—­for the benefit of the hunt at large, said the card,—­and that the hounds would be there at half-past one.

Whatever might happen, he must show a spirit.  In all this there were one of two of the London brigade who stood fast to him.  ’Cock your tail, Tifto,’ said one hard-riding supporter, ’and show ’em you aren’t afraid of nothing.’  So Tifto cocked his tail and went to the meeting in his best new scarlet coat, and with his whitest breeches, his pinkest boots, and his neatest little bows at his knees.  He entered the room with his horn in his hand, as a symbol of authority, and took off his hunting-cap to salute the assembly with a jaunty air.  He had taken two glasses of sherry brandy, and as long as the stimulant lasted would no doubt be able to support himself with audacity.