“Say no more about it, my good friend,” returned Coverdale, heartily shaking his proffered hand, “we did not understand each other before, but we do now, and shall get on capitally for the future I don’t doubt.”
“I shan’t disturb your rabbits again, sir,” continued the penitent Styles, entirely subdued by Coverdale’s hearty manner, “and if the creeturs should do any damage to the crops, why I know a gentleman like you will bear it in mind on the rent-day.”
“Certainly,” was the eager reply; “my object now is to get up the game, and no tenant who assists me in this will find me a hard landlord.”
And so, after an amicable colloquy, they parted the best friends imaginable; Styles observing, as he turned to go, “I did not think there was a man living who could have sewn me up in ten minutes like that; but you are unaccountable quick with your fists, to be sure, Mustur Coverdale.”
“Pray Harry, is this to be considered a specimen of your ‘quiet manner’ with your tenantry?” inquired Hazlehurst dryly, as he bestrode the broad back of his shooting pony.
His friend coloured as he replied with a forced laugh, “Well, I must confess that for once in my life I a little lost temper;—but you see, old boy.” he continued, bringing his hand down upon Hazlehurst’s knee with a smack which caused that delicate youth to spring up in his saddle—“but you see I managed to conciliate him after all.”
CHAPTER III.—HAZLEHURST PLEADS HIS CAUSE AND WINS IT.
“A nd the worst of it is the fellow’s right—what a bore life is—confound everything!—” As he gave utterance to this sweeping anathema, Harry Coverdale lifted a shaggy Scotch terrier by the ears out of an easy chair wherein it was reposing, and flinging himself on the seat thus made vacant, waited disconsolately till Hazlehurst should have finished a letter, which, with unwontedly grave brow he was perusing.