Trefalden. These six were the Hon. Pelham Hay,
of Baliol College, Oxford; the Hon. Edward Brandon;
Lieutenant Frank Torrington, of the Fourth
Lancers; Mr. Guy Greville, of the Perquisite
Office; and two brothers named Sydney and
Robert Pulteney, belonging, as yet, to no place
or profession whatever. There was not "the
making" of one really prominent man among the
whole half-dozen. There was not, perhaps, one
more than commonly clever man; but they were,
for all that, a by no means indifferent specimen
lot of the stuff of which English gentlemen are
made. They were all of patrician blood— all
honourable, good-natured, good-looking, manly
young fellows, who had been brought up to ride,
speak the truth, and respect the game-laws.
They dressed perfectly, and tied their cravats to
admiration. They spoke that conventional
dialect which passes for good English in good
society, and expressed themselves with that
epigrammatic neatness that almost sounds like
wit, and comes naturally to men who have been
educated at a great university and finished in a
crack regiment, a government office, or a Pall-
Mall club. And they were all dancing men, and
nearly all members of the Erectheum. Of the
whole set, the Hon. Edward Brandon was the
most indifferent specimen of the genus homo;
yet even he, though short enough of brain, did
not want for breeding, and, however poorly off
for muscle, was not without pluck.

The whole breakfast-party hailed the scheme
with enthusiasm, and even Signor Colonna said
he would go down to see the running. Prizes
were freely subscribed over the breakfast-table.
Lady Castletowers promised a curious yataghan
that had belonged to Lord Byron, and been
given to her late husband by a member of the
poet's family; Signor Colonna offered an Elzevir
Horace, with the autograph of Filicaja on the
title-page; and the competitors united in making
up a purse of twenty guineas, to be run for in a
one-mile race, and handed over by the winner to
Miss Colonna for the Italian fund. As for the
young men, they despatched their breakfasts
with the rapidity of schoolboys on a holiday
morning, and were soon hard at work upon the
necessary preparations.

To choose and measure a smooth amphitheatre
of sward about half a mile from the house, set
up a winning-post for the racers, a target for
the marksmen, and a temporary grand stand for
the spectators, was work enough for more than
the four hours and a half that lay between ten
and half-past two; but these amateur workmen,
assisted by the village carpenter and his men, as
well as by all the grooms, gardeners, and odd
helps that could be got together, worked with so
good a will that the ground was ready a full hour
and three-quarters before the time. The grand
stand alone was a triumph of ingenuity. It
consisted of a substratum of kitchen tables
securely lashed together, a carpet and some
chairs; the whole structure surmounted by a
canopy formed of a rick-cloth suspended to a
tree and a couple of tall stakes.

Having gone once over the course at a "sling-
trot," just to try the ground, the young men
returned to the house at one o'clock, furiously
hungry, and in tremendous spirits.

Castletowers had ordered luncheon to be
prepared in the smoking-room, and there, laughing,
talking, eating, and drinking all at once, they
made out the programme of the games.

"What shall we begin with?" said the Earl,
pencil in hand. "We must end, of course, with
the one-mile race, and I think we ought to take
the rifle work first, before running has made our
hands less steady."

"Of course. Rifles first, by all means," replied
three or four voices together.

"Names, then, if you please. Now, gentlemen,
who goes in for the bronze cup at eight
hundred yards?"

"On what conditions?" asked one of the
lunchers.

"The usual conditions. Five shots each, at
eight hundred yards; ordinary Enfield rifle;
Wimbledon scoring; that is to say, outer, two;
centre, three; bull's-eye, four."

"Eight hundred's rather long practice for
outsiders," said another man, immersed at the
moment in chicken-pie.

"If we had small bores, I should put it down
at a thousand," replied the Earl; "but there's
only one in the house."

The man in the pie was heard to mutter
something unintelligible about the abundance of great
bores; but being instantly choked by his nearest
neighbour, relapsed into moody silence. In the
mean while the Earl continued to canvass for
competitors.

"Come," said he, "this will never do. I
have only three names yet— Burgoyne, Torrington,
and Vaughan. Whom else? I can't enter
myself for my own prize, and I must have three
more names."

"You may put me down, if you like," said
Mr. Guy Greville. "I shall be sure to shoot
somebody; but it don't signify."

"And me," added Pelham Hay.

"Thanks. Burgoyne, Torrington, Vaughan,
Greville, Pelham Hay— five won't do. I want
six at least. Come, gentlemen, who will stand
for number six?"

"Why, Trefalden, of course!" exclaimed
Vaughan. "The Swiss are born tirailleurs.
Put his name down."

"No, no," said Saxon, hastily. " Not this
time."

"But, my dear fellow, you are de la
première force, are you not?" asked Castletowers.

"I used to shoot well enough when I was
in practice," said Saxon, with some embarrassment;"
but I'd rather not compete now."

The Earl looked surprised; but was too well
bred to insist.

"If you won't," said he, "I must find someone
who will. Syd. Pultney, I shall enter you
for my sixth shot, and that settles match number
one. Gentlemen, the secretary waits to enter
names for the second rifle match; the prize for
which will consist of a magnificent pair of
elaborately ornamented pistols, generously offered by