Opening the door without knocking, what should
he find but the swell huntsman, Mr. Bragg, full fig, in his cap, best
scarlet and leathers, astride a saddle-stand, sitting for his portrait!
'_O, dim it!_' exclaimed Bragg, clasping the front of the stand as if it
was a horse, and throwing himself off, an operation that had the effect of
bringing the new saddle on which he was seated bang on the floor. 'O,
sc-e-e-use me, sir,' seeing it was his master, 'I thought it was my
servant; this, sir,' continued he, blushing and looking as foolish as men
do when caught getting their hair curled or sitting for their portraits,
'this, sir, is my friend, Mr. Ruddle, the painter, sir--yes, sir--very
talented young man, sir--asked me to sit for my portrait, sir--is going to
publish a series of portraits of all the best huntsmen in England, sir.'
'And masters of hounds,' interposed Mr. Ruddle, casting a sheep's eye at
Mr. Puffington.
'And masters of hounds, sir,' repeated Mr. Bragg; 'yes, sir, and masters of
hounds, sir'; Mr. Bragg being still somewhat flurried at the unexpected
intrusion.
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