“Diggles—John Diggles. They brought him before me for stealing pheasants’ eggs, and I—and I—”
“Well, what did you do, dad? Fine him forty shillings?”
“Well, no, my boy. You see, he threw himself on my mercy—said he’d such a character no one would employ him, and that he wanted to get out of the country; and that if he stopped he should always be meddling with the game. And you see, my dear boy, it’s true enough; so I promised to pay his passage to America.”
“A pretty sort of a county magistrate!” laughed Charley. “What do you think the reverend rectors, Lingon and Braceby, will say to you? Why, they would have given John Diggles a month.”
“Perhaps so, my dear boy; but the man has had no chance, and—No; sit still, Charley. I haven’t done yet; I want to talk to you.”
“All right, dad. I was only going to give the mare a spin. Let her wait.” And he threw himself back in his chair.
“Yes, yes—let her wait this morning, my dear boy. But don’t say ‘All right!’ I don’t like you to grow slangy, either in your speech or dress.” He glanced at the young man’s easy tweed suit. “That was one thing in which the old school excelled, in spite of their wine-bibbing propensities—they were particular in their language, dressed well, and were courtly to the other sex.”
“Yes,” yawned Charley; “but they were dreadful prigs.”
“Perhaps so—perhaps so, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman, laying his hand upon his son’s knee. “But do you know, Charley, I should like to see you a little more courtly and attentive to—to the ladies?”
“I adore that mare you gave me, dad.”