One fine September morning, when I was accoutring myself in order to go out and hunt the robert (N.B. a genuine local Scotticism for individuals belonging to the rabbit genius), there came to me my young friend Howard, who was to teach my young idea how to shoot, in great gloom, asking me if it would take me a prolonged period to pack up my impedimenta.
I replied that I could do the trick instantaneously, inquiring the reason for his question.
"Because," said he, "if I were you, I should have a wire requiring me to come up to London at once."
"From my solicitor?" I inquired. "Is he then desirous of consulting with me?"
My friend answered me that it was the one object of his present existence.
"In that case," said I, rather spiritedly, "let him come up here, since I am not a mountain that I should obey the becking call of any Mahomet. Moreover, I am impatient to achieve the destruction of some Scottish roberts."
"If you will take my advice," he said, "you will grant them a reprieve, and make a scarcity of yourself. There is a train for Glasgow which you can just catch. I wouldn't distress the Mater and Governor by any farewells, you know."
"But," I objected, "I am not even in receipt of any telegram. Nor can I possibly omit the etiquette of a ceremonious leave-taking with your honourable parents."
"Just as you please," replied he. "Just now the Governor and Mater are in the front sitting-room, engaged in perusing the back numbers of your precious 'Jossers and Tidlers' or whatever you call 'em, which have been thoughtfully forwarded by a relative. I don't think I'd disturb them."
"Are they so hugely interested in the performances of my unassuming penna?" I cried, with the gratified simpering of a flattered.