three nags, neat and spicy, as if they had not stirred from a stall that morning.

"Not looking much the worse for their journey," said Hopetown to his friend, and patting the horse he particularly wished to call his attention to. "This is the horse I have brought for you; you shall ride him to-morrow. I will ride the other." And turning to his servant: "You may give Splinterbar (meaning his buggy horse) a canter with the hounds: it will be as good exercise for him as any other."

"The best single-harness horse in England," said Hopetown, addressing his friend.

"He ought to be a hunter," remarked Mr. Herbert.

"Not fast enough," replied his friend; "harness is his trade." This arrangement being settled, shooting was voted for the morning's pursuit.

Hopetown took out his brace of splendid-looking pointers, and, on their calling on a neighbour, he joined them, bringing a third dog.

One of Hopetown's dogs, like most of his possessions, was extraordinary in his way. This dog, in ranging, never kept his eye for two successive moments off his master, and was constantly seen turning his head towards him.

"I never saw a dog so careful as that in my life," remarked the stranger.

"He is so," said Hopetown; " and I think I can show you in him a specimen of perfect breaking you never saw before."

The dog was ranging to the left, cast an eye on his master: a wave of the hand sent him instantly to the right, a counter-sign sent him back to the left. This was done several times, the dog turning as short as does Mr. Batty's horse in the circle on the given signal. "Extraordinary!" exclaimed both gentlemen.

"I can show you a little more than this," said Hopetown.

The dog was now in full career. Hopetown beckoned him; in a few strides he stood before his master, looking him in the face. "Wonderful!" was the second ejaculation.

Hopetown now made a downward motion of his hand; the dog dropped on the instant, and lay watching his master's very look. "Would price tempt you to let me have him," said the neighbour. "Yes," was the reply; "but, of course, it must be a very strong one."

A very strong one was named, and the dog changed masters.

Now, the history of the dog was this: he was, on the whole, not better than the others, or, to those who knew him, worse-he was deaf as a post. His ears being useless to him, he had become thus watchful with his eyes, and obeyed signal where others attended to call; and this gave the impression of his being more highly trained than any other, and his constant watchfulness prevented (except under very peculiar circumstances) his infirmity being detected. He was, in short, a fair ten-guinea dog, and no more; the extra three tens given were a specimen of most of his master's sales.

Many, or at all events some, of my readers most probably recollect that in the entertainment of "Giovanni in London," on the Don's introduction to the Queen's Bench, a gentleman there asked of him the

G G

loan of a sovereign. This was instantly given. "I wish I had asked him for two," said the scamp. Somewhat of a similar feeling influenced Hopetown on the ready sale of the deaf pointer. "Their galleys blaze, why not their city too?" so said the Corsair: "The pointer's sold, why not the Manton too?" so thought Hopetown.

I have stated he was an unerring shot; the neighbour was not. Hopeful never missed a bird the whole morning; the other missed about five out of six. It was now getting late.

"Try my gun," said Hopetown; "I am but a bad shot, but I seldom miss with that and another I have."

They changed. Hopetown's lucky star was in the ascendant. A covey rose close at hand: bang! bang! went Hopetown's barrels, in the neighbour's hands, and down came a brace. Hopetown fired off his borrowed ones, and took care not to disturb a feather.

"Changing tools does not suit a bad workman," said Hopetown, smiling.

Three more shots were fired by each gentleman, the neighbour bagging a brace, Hopetown missing all.

"I make no doubt but the fault is mine, and not your gun's," said Hopetown; "but I cannot hit a bird with it."

"And I," said the neighbour, "never shot in my life as I have with yours."

I need not trouble the reader with particulars; but the Manton went to the same home as its old companion the pointer, and at about as moderate a price.

The next day saw Hopetown's three horses with the hounds, mounted as he proposed; Mr. Herbert introducing his guest to a couple of friends, and getting their promise to dine with him the same day.

Hopetown and his man both rode their horses as it might be termed, in racing phrase, "to order"-that is, with a certain object in view. The first took care so to ride as to let his friend keep the lead of him; yet he also took care to show off the jumping powers of the horse he rode. The man was ordered to keep quite among the second-place set. One of the friends invited to dinner was a very young man, whom the penetrating observation of Hopetown soon detected as piquing himself on the speed of his horse and going "first flight." Our hero narrowly watched him, and in point of fencing "set him"; in other terms, "rode at him"; and at last, at one most formidable fence, fairly "pounded" him. At another part of the run, in which the young one had been making injudiciously free with his horse, Hopetown, seeing him in temporary "difficulty," seized the golden moment, and, on a far slower but fresher nag, gave his new acquaintance the "go-by." This was all he wanted, as the result will prove. The fox was killed, and the gentlemen met at dinner,

When during the evening the day's sport was mentioned, Mr. Herbert was complimented on the way he had been carried. This was "nuts" in the dessert for Hopetown, and caused a memorandum to be set down in his mind to name an extra ten guineas in the price.

"Yes," said our hero, "I think Meteor quite worthy of his name; and," said he, turning to the young guest, "that is a clever horse of yours, though not a fast one."

"Excuse, me," replied the somewhat nettled owner, "I consider him the fastest in the hunt."

"Except, for one, the horse I rode," said Hopetown,

"Oh !" rejoined the owner, my horse was a little blown at the moment; but I should like to run you for a hundred."

"I do not want to win your money to a dead certainty," said Hopetown; "but to show I give a candid opinion of your horse's speed, I will run you for two hundred, if you like, even with my buggy-horse that you saw my servant ride."

"Done!" cried the young one, his blood mounting to his face at the supposed indignity offered his flyers.

The next day but two was named, over a mile and a-half of a neighbouring course.

"You may book your two hundred gone, Hopetown," said Mr. Herbert; "P 's horse is very fast, I can tell you."

"If he is," replied his guest, "I forfeit all claim to judgment in such matters" (for he did not let even his friend into the secret).

Weights were not alluded to; but as owners were to ride, Hopetown's quick eye told him he had a good seven pounds in his favour, otherwise so important a point would not have passed unheeded by him,

At the starting-post, more than one remarked "the buggy-horse" did not look unlikely to "go"; one or two knowing ones put on the "pot" in his favour. They started, the young one making play at his best. While running, the majority of those present voted "the buggy-horse" and Hopetown's judgment and presumption all quite out-paced; coming into straight running, however, Hopetown was seen evidently drawing on his antagonist, at half distance collared him, and in spite of steel and whipcord won as he liked,

A knowing look passed from a few to Hopetown, as he quietly walked his horse up to his cloths; and one who had pocketed a few "ponies" whispered to Hopetown, "Glenartny-mum!" The initiated will guess by this how the case stood.

The truly astonished and discomfited owner of the beaten nag now began to doubt whether, should he in future call his horse "The Flyer," one of his slang friends answered, "Walker!" He offered to buy the buggy-horse.

"No," said Hopetown; "he is not, as you suppose, fast; nor is he a hunter; so I shall keep him for my gigger. But I will have a deal with you for the horse I rode, and," added he, "beat you on, when hunting; he really is, as a hunter, first-rate."

The deal was made-Hopetown getting a hundred and a better horse than his. The buggy-horse being bottled for some other chance,

Having thus done more business in a short time than he anticipated, a letter next morning afforded a pretext of being obliged to return to The Village. We will now take a mercantile look at the results of the trip.

He had got the credit of making a £30 present for about £2. Had exchanged a £16 dressing-case for sundries that would be sold for £30.

Sold a pointer, cost £10, at £40.

Sold a second-hand Manton, bought at £20, for £50.

Sold Meteor, cost £90, at £200.

Won on the race, £200.

Got for a second horse, cost 100 gs., a better horse and £100.
Borrowed of Mr. Herbert, £200.

This sent him back flush to town, and well enabled him to keep up golden opinions among Mr. Herbert's servants, by giving them five Sovereigns. What he gave Mary is a secret between her, him, and myself.

What little business Mr. Dupré, his valet, did on his own account in a minor way among the natives we will not investigate; and what Hopetown's groom made on the race, matters not to the reader of this article. It was, however, several times over what the writer gets by producing it.

"Bye, bye! old fellow," said Hopetown, kissing his hand from the drag next morning. "By George! you got a bit the best of me in getting Meteor at £200; Chesterton would have given £300."

"Now get on, you sir," said he to the post-boy; "and don't be a week going the eight miles, as you were coming. Go along, ye cripples" said he, stooping forward, and giving each horse a tap with his cane. "Bye, bye!"-the "Herbert" was lost in the sound the whirling wheels.

A FOGGY DAY'S SPORT.

It is sometimes puzzling to know how and where to find a good day's sport, on a thick foggy November day, in a district too far wide of a pack of hounds; but as it has been our good fortune on a very recent occasion to derive a vast amount of pleasure and sport combined, on one of these aforesaid "thick muggy days," as the sailors term it, we proceed to relate our adventures.

We had just finished breakfast at a certain hotel in a borough town on the eastern coast of England, when who should look in upon us but our quondam friend Gregory Thurloe, of yachting celebrity! He had come, he said, purposely to invite us to accompany him to his yacht, which lay at anchor in the harbour, where he proposed a few hours' whiting fishing. We were only too happy to join him, having almost resolved (before Gregory looked in) to spend a monotonous day at home over the Times newspaper, or the racing records of the past year. He told us there was no time to lose, as the tide had to be studied as to our getting off; therefore, after making a rapid change in our morning attire, we shortly found ourselves alongside the "Desperate" cutter yacht, and quickly jumped a-board. Everything was in readiness for

our anticipated sport, in the shape of lines, sprules,* hooks, and baits. The yacht lay at anchor at the very spot chosen for our diversion; and as soon as the tide had "slackened a bit," we dropped our baited hooks over, and the sport began. There are certain peculiar days when these fish bite so much more freely than at others—and this was one of those favoured occasions; within half an hour after our lines had been at work, the sport commenced in earnest, and so continued for upwards of three hours; by which time, with our four lines, we had hauled nearly eight score, We had begun to talk of quitting the sport and prepare for dinner, which the steward announced would be very shortly ready, when a somewhat laughable incident occurred. One of our friend Gregory's companions found he had hooked something "very like a whale," for he roared out that some monster or other down below had got on his hook, and he could not hold him in. "He must go; he must go," he said. "Hold him hard," said Gregory; "he's a cod or a skate." But it was of no use; away went the fish, with sprule, line, reel and all: and before one of the men could catch hold of it, all was overboard and gone. Still the reel floated on the surface: the boat was instantly manned, and the reel regained. "Heave us a landing net," said Gregory, who was the first in the boat with his men, and who now had the sport entirely to himself. Experience had taught him how to kill a cod fish as easily as a whiting; and after a few minutes' careful hauling and easing the line, the fish was safely brought into the boat. It proved, as was supposed, a cod, and weighed 27 lbs. Our lines were

now laid aside, and we fell-to in good earnest at a dish of whitings, part of the result of our sport, which appeared doubly delicious from being so pure and fresh and nicely cooked. We did so much justice to this first dish, that our appetites were exceedingly tampered with, when a roast goose was brought to the cabin table. On the removal of the cloth our friend Gregory informed us there were two hours on our hands before the tide served for going a-shore; which time, I must add, was very jovially passed over some good port and claret, and finally cigars; and thus terminated one of the best day's sport we ever remember on a thick foggy November day.

* Tackle used for sea fishing. A sprule is nothing more than a lump of lead, of a pound or pound-and-a-half weight, with a piece of stout wire, about one foot in length, inserted through the lead; at each end of the wire a piece of gimp and a fish-hook are attached: the line is suspended from the central piece, or leaden weight. It is by no means unusual to haul two fish at a time-one on each hook.