One highlight of the day on Sunday occurred late in the proceedings while I was sitting watching the English classes unfold. A Foxhound Club official approached me diffidently, and asked very politely, if I would be kind enough to oblige the Committee by making the award of the Cobbler Hunt Cup.
Of course, I realized some kind of mistake in identity was underway. So I laughed, and advised him that he was undoubtedly confusing me with someone else, as I was not actually a Master of Foxhounds, or anyone prominent in the foxhound breeding community at all.
Clearly, though, it had to have been my all around air of distinction, and my recognizable habit of command (what John Taintor Foote referred to as “the look of eagles”), along with my obvious close physical resemblance to the individual in the above picture that resulted in the gentleman’s perfectly natural confusion.
It did occur to me not long afterward that I could have simply played along, and when he introduced me with the wrong name and organizational affiliation, I could simply have corrected him, attributing to myself the mastership of an imaginary hound pack named for my Pennsylvania farm, and then people in Northern Virginia hunting circles would be laughing over the incident for weeks, but I expect that would have been going a little too far for a joke, and the chap they actually wanted might justifiably feel hard done by.