King of the countryside - Shooting UK
Despite some 30 seasons passing, I remember the day with crystal clarity. Hounds met at Lowesby, the grassy heart of the Quorn Friday country. The bitch pack looked their usual lithe selves; Richard Mould, the grand old pack’s kennel-huntsman, did likewise. I sidled up to my friend, who was mounted on a butty horse, his eyes forever on his hounds. “All well?” I asked. “Morning Arthur,” he replied — you tend to get called Arthur by people of a certain vintage if your surname is Negus ...
Source: shootinguk.co.uk