“I’m hunting them myself, this season,” Christian was saying. “I used to hunt them for Sl——” he cast a glance at his agent—“for Stanley, you remember, when I was at home. Sl—Stanley—wasn’t keen on the sport—left it to Brathay, as a rule. It’s good exercise, if you care about that kind of thing, and now that I’ve given up the games——”
Larrupper let out a yell that brought the old keeper racing down the hill with his heart in his mouth.
“Give up the games? You’re rottin’, Laker! Give up the wrestlin’ and the jumpin’ an’ the footer an’ the—Brathay, my good idiot, the whole blessed lot are as safe as houses, as you could see for yourself if you were any use at countin’!”
“I do mean it,” Christian replied, looking at the ground. “I’ve—there’s a lot to see to, now, you know, and games are rather a waste of time—I suppose.”
“Footlin’ piffle! You don’t mean to be gluin’ yourself to the place all your life, do you? Your agent will keep it runnin’ all right if he’s a decent chap; an’ you are a decent chap, aren’t you, Mr.—afraid-your-name’s-gone-missin’? Slinker had time for playin’ round a bit, we all know that! Slinker had his little hobbies——”
“Your engine has stopped, Lionel.”
“Who’s mindin’? Crump’ll jog along in the same old cart-track without you everlastin’ly shovin’ behind; and hang it all, man, you’ll be wantin’ a bit of amusement sometime! What’s worryin’ you now, Brathay dear? I wish you’d run away an’ play!”
“Can’t count more than fifteen couple, sir. Rest must be somewheres about, and hounds is that curious—likely they’re some of them underneath.”
“An’ likely they’re roostin’ inside the bonnet as well, you—you old Buff Orpin’ton! Now look here, Brathay. I’m doin’ no harm on your rubbishin’ premises, an’ I won’t be hustled off for all the over-fed, under-run hounds in creation!”
“You make hounds that nervous, sir! They’re very easy upset.”