“Didn’t bring it. Sunday, you know; must respect people’s prejudices,” replies Hicks.
“Oh, Lord! and I would have liked to have peppered that chap’s hide,” groaned Armitage.
They rode on over hill and dale. Suddenly the rasping cry of the wild guinea-fowl brought Hicks’ heart into his mouth, and he certainly did not bless the good old-world prejudice in deference to which he had left his beloved gun at home on the first day of the week, and as a cloud of those splendid game birds rose from a grassy bottom within a few yards of them and winged away with their chattering note, poor Hicks fairly groaned.
“Look at that. Only look at that!” he exclaimed in tones of wrathful disgust. “Such a chance; did you ever see them rise like that! When a fellow has his gun and is all ready for them, blest if they won’t run hundreds of yards before they’ll get up, whereas—”
“I suppose they know it’s Sunday,” put in Allen, with a feeble attempt at chaff.
The other turned from him impatiently, without replying. Good-natured as he was habitually, there were moments when even Hicks felt justifiably cantankerous. This was one of them.
They continued their way without event, and, cresting the last ridge, descended into the long valley, at whose head stood the old farmhouse.
“Hallo! some one’s turned up,” said Armitage, indicating the white tent of a Cape cart, which stood outspanned before the stable-door, with the harness lying beside the swingle bars.
“Looks like Naylor’s trap,” said Hicks.
“Good. The more the merrier,” rejoined Armitage, as they cantered up and dismounted.