The Mangeysterne
hounds wanted that great ingredient of prosperity, a large nest-egg
subscriber, to whom all others could be tributary--paying or not as might
be convenient. The consequence was they were always up the spout. They were
neither a scratch pack nor a regular pack, but something betwixt and
between. They were hunted by a saddler, who found his own horses, and
sometimes he had a whip and sometimes he hadn't. The establishment died as
often as old Mantalini himself. Every season that came to a close was
proclaimed to be their last, but somehow or other they always managed to
scramble into existence on the approach of another. It is a way, indeed,
that delicate packs have of recruiting their finances. Nevertheless, the
Mangeysternes did look very like coming to an end about the time that Mr.
Puffington bought Hanby House. The saddler huntsman had failed; John Doe
had taken one of his screws, and Richard Roe the other, and anybody might
have the hounds that liked: Puffington then turned up.
Great was the joy diffused throughout the Mangeysterne country when it
transpired, through the medium of his valet, Louis Bergamotte, that 'his
lor' had _beaucoup habit rouge_' in his wardrobe.
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