Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then tried to look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically.
“Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?” inquired Wardle.
“Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o’clock, sir.”
“That’s not Sir Geoffrey’s land, is it?”
“No, sir; but it’s close by it. It’s Captain Boldwig’s land; but there’ll be nobody to interrupt us, and there’s a fine bit of turf there.”
“Very well,” said old Wardle. “Now the sooner we’re off the better. Will you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?”
Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle’s life and limbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn back, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he replied—
“Why, I suppose I must.”
“An’t the gentleman a shot, sir?” inquired the long gamekeeper.
“No,” replied Wardle; “and he’s lame besides.”