of

'Knights and dames,
And all that wealth and lofty lineage claim.'

At the period of which we write, however, 'Laverick Wells' was in great
feather--it had never known such times. Every house, every lodging, every
hole and corner was full, and the great hotels, which more resemble
Lancashire cotton-mills than English hostelries, were sending away
applicants in the most offhand, indifferent way.

The Laverick Wells hounds had formerly been under the management of the
well-known Mr. Thomas Slocdolager, a hard-riding, hard-bitten, hold-harding
sort of sportsman, whose whole soul was in the thing, and who would have
ridden over his best friend in the ardour of the chase.

[Illustration: MR. THOMAS SLOCDOLAGER, LATE MASTER OF THE LAVERICK WELLS
HOUNDS]

In some countries such a creature may be considered an acquisition, and so
long as he reigned at the Wells, people made the best they could of him,
though it was painfully apparent to the livery-stable keepers, and others,
who had the best interest of the place at heart, that such a red-faced,
gloveless, drab-breeched, mahogany-booted buffer, who would throw off at
the right time, and who resolutely set his great stubbly-cheeked face
against all show meets and social intercourse in the field, was not exactly
the man for a civilized place. Whether time might have enlightened Mr.
Slocdolager as to the fact, that continuous killing of foxes, after
fatiguingly long runs, was not the way to the hearts of the Laverick Wells
sportsmen, is unknown, for on attempting to realize as fine a subscription