“Put the bag away, Harry,” said the Squire.
“Just to comfort ’ee, now!”
“I tell ’ee I won’t look at en.”
Sir Harry untied the neck of the bag, and drew out a smaller one; untied this, and out strutted a game-cock.
The old Squire eyed it. “H’m, he don’t seem flourishing.”
“Don’t abuse a bird that’s come twelve miles in a bag on purpose to cheer you up. He’s a match for anything you can bring.”
“Tuts, man, he’s dull—no colour nor condition. Get along with ’ee; I wouldn’ ask a bird of mine to break the Sabbath for a wastrel like that.”
Sir Harry drew out a shagreen-covered case and opened it. Within, on a lining of pale blue velvet, lay two small sharp instruments of steel, very highly polished. He lifted one, felt its point, replaced it, set down the case on the carpet, and fell to toying with the ears of the Gordon setter, which had come sniffing out of curiosity.
“You’re a very obstinate man,” said Squire Moyle. After a long pause he added, “I suppose you’re wanting odds?”
“Evens will do,” said Sir Harry.