Captain Robert Rolph looked a little chagrined at the suggestion respecting pigs; but he concealed his annoyance and walked briskly on beside his companion, Sir John Day, Bart of Brackley Hall, Surrey, a grey, florid, stoutly-built gentleman, whose aspect betokened much of his time being spent in the open air. He was an intent, bright, bustling-looking man, with grey, mutton-chop whiskers; and his drab-cord trousers, brown velveteen coat and low-crowned, grey hat, gave quite a country squire, country-town-bench turn to his appearance.
“I’ve great faith in these pigs,” he said, sharply. “Been at a deal of trouble to get hold of the breed, and if I don’t take a cup at the Agricultural Show this year, I shall be down upon some of those judges—in the Times.”
“Ah, ’tis disappointing when you’ve set your mind upon a cup and don’t get it,” said the captain. “How many have you won, Sir John?”
“What, cups? Thirty-four, my boy, thirty-four.”
“Ah, I’ve got fifty,” said the captain, with a touch of pride in his tone. “When I go in training for anything, I always say to myself, I shall put it off, and I pretty generally do.”
“Humph! yes,” said Sir John, shortly; “so I suppose. Oh, by the way though, Rolph, you’d oblige me very much by going back to the house. I’ll show you the pigs another day.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said the young man with alacrity.
“You see there’s my brother. He thinks a great deal of Glynne, and I never like to take any important step in life without consulting him. Do you understand?”
“Well—er, not exactly.”
“Oh, I mean, just go back and see him, and say what you did to me just now.”