Taffy passed, was scored with wheel-ruts. He followed these down an
ill-kept road bordered with furze-whins, tamarisks, and clumps of
bannel broom. By-and-by he came to a ragged plantation of stone
pines, backed by a hedge of rhododendrons, behind which the hounds
were baying in their kennels. It put him in mind of the "Pilgrim's
Progress." He heard the stable clock strike three, and caught a
glimpse, over the shrubberies, of its cupola and gilt weather-cock.
And then a turn of the road brought him under the gloomy northern
face of the house, with its broad carriage sweep and sunless portico.
Half the windows on this side had been blocked up and painted black,
with white streaks down and across to represent framework.

He pulled at an iron bell-chain which dangled by the great door.
The bell clanged far within and a dozen dogs took up the note,
yelping in full peal. He heard footsteps coming; the door was
opened, and the dogs poured out upon him--spaniels, terriers,
lurchers, greyhounds, and a big Gordon setter--barking at him,
leaping against him, sniffing his calves. Taffy kept them at bay as
best he could and waved his letter at a wall-eyed man in a dirty
yellow waistcoat, who looked down from the doorstep but did not offer
to call them off.

"Any answer?" asked the wall-eyed man.

Taffy could not say. The man took the letter and went to inquire,
leaving him alone with the dogs.

It seemed an age before he reappeared, having in the interval slipped
a dirty livery coat over his yellow waistcoat. "The Squire says
you're to come in." Taffy and the dogs poured together into a high,