“You are going through, sir?” said the coachman.
“Yes, William,” I said, condescendingly (I knew him); “I am going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.”
“Shooting, sir?” said the coachman.
He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.
“I don’t know,” I said, pretending to be undecided, “whether I shall take a shot or not.”
“Birds is got wery shy, I’m told,” said William.
“So I understand,” said I.
“Is Suffolk your county, sir?” asked William.
“Yes,” I said, with some importance, “Suffolk’s my county.”
“I’m told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,” said William.