'catch 'ee a score or two o'trout in the little Webber; zo you'll ha' yeur vish to vry arter all.'

At any other time Frank would have denounced such an offer indignantly, and stigmatised the act of using a net as the grossest of all poaching; but now, not less for the sake of the manly sport in which his father so much delighted, and which seemed to be bred in his own bone, than for the horror he felt at the foul play practised against the wily animal on that side of the moor, he very discreetly raised no objection to Tom's plan. Not one was he to say with Vich-Alpine's rebel chieftain,

'Who ever reck'd where, how, or when,

The prowling fox was trapped or slain ; '

far other notions of what was due to the vulpine race had been impressed upon him from his earliest years, and the more he saw of foxhunting, the more he respected the gallant animal capable of showing such wondrous sport. So strong was this feeling upon him that he set his heart to convert Tom to a better faith.

' And what will you do with them, Tom,' inquired he, 'supposing 'you are lucky enough to bag the whole litter alive?'

'Why, carry 'em fust to the churchwarners, and then zell 'em to 'the kippers, to be zure; they'll mak', ef they'm but tew months old, ' a crown a head, wan wi' t'other.'

"Not more than that, man? You bring them to my father, and 'see if he don't give you twice as much, and blow out your hide into the bargain with as much beef and cider as you can carry under 'your belt.'

Wid he r'aly now,' cried the half-fed moorman, catching eagerly at the prospect of being regaled on the substantial fare for which Watercombe was so famous; for, come who would to that house with any story having reference to a fox, an otter, or a stray hound, he was ordered into the servants' hall, where the hospitality of the Squire suffered no discredit at Matthew's hands. For a moment Tom was lured by the tempting vision; but when the recollection of the successful war he had so long waged against foxes, and the countless victims he had sacrificed, crossed his mind, the old suspicious look, like the glint of a fox's eye, almost instantly returned. 'He'd be more like to gie me the hoss-whip, I reckon, than 'a belly-full o' beef or a pint o' cider,' continued the moorman; ''tisn't wance nor 'tisn't twice Squire hath a zed, "He hoped Tom ""Franks wid ride to hell on a pig's back;" and as vor Ben Head, 'he fall'th to cussing and sinking, and zaying the devil's prayers upon me, as ef they was like to zave the voxes or 's own life either. 'Naw, they've a teeled many a trap vor poor Tom, but they ain't a 'going to catch un tu Watercombe, ef he knowth it.'

That may be very true of the past, Tom. You've given my 'father good reason to abuse you; but if you were to turn over a 'new leaf, and, instead of marring the sport of so many, do your 'best to promote it, there's no man living would take you by the

⚫ hand sooner than my father; Ben Head, too, would then be your 'best friend instead of, as he is now, your bitterest enemy.'

Tom, however, shook his head, as if he were a sinner beyond forgiveness; adding abruptly, 'Us'll tell about that anithur time.'

They had now crossed over to the upper portion of the rugged ravine through which, after it quits Ponsworthy Bridge, the Webber frets and struggles among the countless number of huge granite boulders that bar its course at every turn. Dagworthy Cleaves lay directly in front of them; and, just as they were surmounting a woody knoll and preparing to descend into the hollow gorge between it and Lizzel Wood, a wild uproar rang upon their ears, as if some desperate sylvan fray were going on in the glen below.

Begorz!' exclaimed the moorman, coming to a sudden standstill on the top of a furze-bank and trembling with excitement, ‘ef that ' ain't Passon Davy and his gre't otter-hounds, I'll ate vire! Hark'ee, ' don't 'ee hear, mun, a roaring like wisht-hounds, and that's he, fai', 'a blowing ov's horn like a mazed man!'

Long before the sound had attracted Tom's attention he had had the work of the world to keep back the ragged and restless lot trotting at his heels. They had heard the din from afar; and although many a blow from the long hazel rod fell heavily on their hides, their pricked ears and eager looks were not to be suppressed at such a time. Attributing their impatience to the near vicinity of the fox-earths, Tom continued rating them soundly.

To heels, I tell 'ee, Duster and Dainty; and yeu, Bolter' (this was a long-faced, wire-haired, yellow terrier) back, I zay; what 'be 'bout, forging ahead zo, yeu cussed fule !'

On hearing the twang of the horn, however, the lot could stand it no longer; heedless of rod and rate, hounds and terriers dashed off like demons, and in one instant were springing head-over-heels down the precipitous cover overhanging the stream. Tom gave one yell after them, but he might as well have halloed to a hurricane; and, perceiving at once the futility of doing so, he turned and said with a somewhat mortified air to Frank, 'Us may zo well zeek vor a niddle in long-veathers as vor they cubs in Lizzel 'ood, wi'out tarriers : 'zo, let's arter 'em, I zay, and zee a bit o' sport wi' the Passon's cry.'

With all my heart,' replied Frank, leaping off the furze-bank with a feeling of unfeigned relief at the unexpected reprieve thus obtained by the foxes. The foiling of the valley by these hounds,' thought he, will probably alarm the old vixen, and by to-morrow 'the litter will be safely shifted to some distant earth.'

The roar of wild harmony that now rose from the river, awaking a thousand echoes and shaking the old oak-trees to their topmost twigs, filled Frank with a transport of delight; for never before had he listened to a chorus so rich and so musical as that of those deepmouthed hounds. Tom Franks, too, was in his element. Mak'th a man's heart fairly dance, doth that meusic,' said he, as the thunder rolled in a grand volume through the rocky vale and stirred the moorman's heart to its very core.

On a bend of the river not a hundred yards below the chase, which was pouring downstream like an avalanche, Tom and Frank took their station, and, clambering to the top of two massive boulders, peered into the tide with watchful eyes. So deep, however, was the narrow channel that the otter slipped by them without being viewed, and then, landing in a thicket, headed back for that vast pile of granite rocks known as Dagworthy Cleaves. The hounds, almost on his back, came tearing after him, some in and some out of the water, like a lot of dragons; and although the current, speeding onwards, carried with it the grateful scent, they turned short just where the otter landed, hit off the line, and dashed into the cover without a moment's check. A wild cheer-almost a yell-burst from the moorman's lips as the sharp treble notes of the terriers told him they were driving hard and close on their game.

"That's Bolter and Tear-'em a trimming ov un now, and they'll warm hes jacket vor un, zee if they don't. But where 'be the hunters tu?' he said, looking round him inquiringly, as if utterly at a loss to account for the nonappearance of a human being. Frank and he still kept their places, high-mounted on those granite watch-towers, where they were the better able to catch an occasional view of the chase, as it swept over the open spots in the hanging wood. Again Tom asked the question with increasing perplexity, 'Whatever's come to th' Passon? and • Robin Hannivor, tew? Never knowed 'em a lanyard vrom th' 'hounds avore.'

This time, however, the Parson answered for himself, by putting in an appearance that brought Tom's knees to a staggering point and made him even doubt the credibility of his own eyesight. The Parson was stark-naked; and coming to a standstill on the top of a boulder, with an otter-pole in one hand and a horn in the other, he looked the noble savage' all over-the wild man of the woods in Nature's own garb. In listening attitude he stood, as if trying to make out which way the hounds were turning; nor was he at all aware of the presence of the two spectators, who, recognising him at once, and marvelling more and more as to the cause of his nudity, remained for some seconds speechless with amazement. In another instant, however, he caught sight of them; but, so far from exhibiting any discomposure, he shouted aloud, 'Glad to see you both, 'that I am! But how came you to let him slip by? That was not ' like you, Tom.'

I'd a kipt un agen, sartainly, if I'd a zeed un,' replied the moorman, in self-defence. But, gude now, whatever have 'ee do'd wi' yeur clothes-have 'ee been robbed, or what's come to 'em, zur?'

No, Tom, I've not fallen among thieves; but I've been nearly ' drowned by this thief of an otter-stepped on a slippery stone and fell headlong into a bottomless pool. My clothes must be quite 'dry by this time; for it's a good four hours since I took my plunge, and then I stripped and spread them on the surface of a rock facing 'the sun. They're dry enough now, no doubt; but I don't mean 'to trouble them till I've killed this otter.'

'Then, I reckon, yeu ban't going to do that yit awhile,' said Tom, suddenly perceiving a lull in the cry, and knowing that the hounds had thrown up in close proximity to Dagworthy Cleaves. 'He's a go' to ground zafe enow up in thikky there dungeon; zo 'tis gude-bye to un now I zim.'

Don't be so sure of that, Tom,' replied the Parson. I've bolted 'him six times already out of that clitter, and I'll bolt him again and 'kill him, too, before I put one rag to my back; so forra'd, my lads, 'let's up and at him!'

Parson Davy, happily for him, had retained his shoes, or he must have torn his feet to shreds, as he sprang like a mountain-cat up the. granite surface of that rough and declivitous hill. Above the common height and of a spare muscular frame, hardened by exercise and tough as bell-wire, the Parson in his ordinary walk covered a good four feet of ground at every stride; and there were few men in the West who could venture to vie with him in activity and endurance, in cover-fagging and long days with otter-hounds. Possessing good features, a bright pleasant smile, and scarcely yet thirty years of age, marvellous to relate, he was still a bachelor; and so completely devoted was he to the charms of Diana that, had the 'goddess of the 'silver bow' competed for the prize and he had been the judge, the golden apple would never have fallen to the lot of Venus, nor the Greeks have gloried in the fall of Troy.

In scaling the rugged heights, lissome and accustomed as Frank and Tom were to such places, they found their master in Parson Davy; for, breath enough had he to rattle his horn lustily on the topmost stone of Dagworthy Cleaves, while they, a hundred yards below, were straining and panting in their upward course. Not a terrier nor even a hound was in sight; but far down, in the cavernous depths of the clitter, a hollow, rumbling, subterranean murmur, like that of a volcano previous to eruption, could be distinctly heard. They were hard at him, then, ten fathoms down; with ten thousand tons of superincumbent primæval rock interposing between the daylight above and the chase below. Still the struggle was going on desperately; and the Parson, as he bent his ear to the chinks of two mighty boulders, could tell how it was surging to and fro, now near the surface and now farther away, but he said nothing, not even in a whisper, to the two breathless companions who had now joined him.

A dead silence, too, was observed by them; for if the otter was headed in his attempt to bolt, death, as they well knew, in the innermost depths of the earth, would be his inevitable fate. The Parson and Tom were equally proud of their Dartmoor terriers, and gloried in knowing that, till the wild beast bolted or was killed, not one of them would show his face. For a full half-hour the din of the distant war never ceased; but at length, the quarters becoming too hot for him, Tom, who had stationed himself between the clitter and the river, viewed him stealthily emerging from the base of a boulder and making straight for the water. Two of the terriers, however, Bolter and Prince, emerged almost simultaneously from the same

spot and, quick as lightning, were on him ere he gained the stream; seizing him, then, near each ear, they clung to him, like limpets to a rock, till the hounds came up and finished the fray.

What o'clock is it, Tom?' inquired the Parson, as he held the otter, head and tail, aloft in the air, and then gave a rattling whoowhoop to encourage the circle of hounds baying around him. My 'watch struck work at eleven o'clock, when I got my sousing, and I

'hav'nt a notion what time it is.'

'The zun's now right over Benjay Tor; zo I reckon 'tis about ten minutes arter vour,' replied Tom, who, never having carried a watch, used the moor for his dial and the tors for the figures, indicating at once the position of the sun and the time of day. Nor was the acute and observant moorman often wrong in his calculation. 'After four!' exclaimed Frank with unfeigned surprise. Why that was the time fixed for our picnic dinner at Holne Chase. Í shall 'lose it, and get into everlasting disgrace into the bargain.'

Then you and I are in the same boat,' said the Parson, for I 'promised to join a party at the Birds' this very afternoon; but never mind: hang the dinner! We don't find a good otter every day, ' and I'll see if I can't appease our hostess by giving that sweet little 'blue-eyed angel, Mary Cornish, this skin for a muff.'

It was lucky the Parson was too much engaged in the 'worry' to note the cloud that passed over Frank's face at that moment; had he done so, he could not have failed to observe that he had unconsciously touched a very tender string, and that, in fact, the boy was far gone, if not over head and ears, in love with that fair girl.

To re-habilitate himself in his clothes, now thoroughly dried by sun and air, occupied the Parson but a few minutes; and in less than half-an-hour from that time, Frank and he, seated on either side of Mrs. Cornish, were discussing the mysteries of a squab-pie; while Tom Franks, on the outskirts of the party, was pitching, with hearty goodwill, into a shoulder of lamb-a feast of the gods to him, who so rarely tasted such dainty fare.

MR. E. H. BUDD, AND THE CRICKET OF
EARLIER DAYS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE CRICKET FIELD.'

In the obituary of the Times' I lately read

'At his house at Elcombe, near Swindon, Edward Hayward Budd, Esq., in the ninety-first year of his age.'

Some few elderly gentlemen yet live to identify this with the once celebrated E. H. Budd, a name as well known as W. G. Grace among the cricketers of his day.

Mr. Budd played in all the great matches of the M.C.C. from the year 1805 to 1825, from about the twentieth to the fortieth year of his age. He played-and not his last match-against Cheltenham College when as old as sixty-five. We always used to say,'