Allen. For a while the yard was full
of animation, the horses pawing and snorting, Dale bustling
hospitably, his wife filling the glasses and handing the food, and
everybody talking who was not eating or drinking.
Mr. Allen was exhausted, tottering on his skinny legs, but
nevertheless burning with ardor for the chase.
"They've changed foxes," he cried breathlessly. "They've lost the
hunted fox, and they've only themselves to thank for it. I told them,
and they wouldn't listen. I knew."
"Ah, but you always know," said a second-horseman, grinning.
"If Mr. Maltby," said Allen, "had cast back instead of forward last
time I holloa'd, he'd have had the mask on his saddle rings by now."
Then he sank down upon one of the upping-stocks, snatched a hunk of
bread, munched hastily.
"Mr. Allen, you've no cheese. Here, let me fill your glass again.
How's Rodchurch?" Every time that Mavis passed, she asked a question.
"Mr. Allen, how's Miss Waddy's sister?"
"Dead," said Allen, with his mouth full.
"Dead. Oh, that's sad!" Then next time it was: "How's Miss Yorke? Not
married yet?"
"No, nor likely to be."
The horse-people soon began to move off again--"Thank you, Mr. Dale.
Good night, Mr. Dale.
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