“You can light my pipe, if you like,” said John, still gloomily, “but I be goin’ up-along all the same. Things ’ull be goin’ to ruin if I don’t tell ’em how they used to be carried on i’ my time.”
“I d’ ’low ye’ll not get so far,” said Mrs. Guppy; “but of all the obstinate men—well, there, ’tis a good thing as the A’mighty made half the world o’ women-folk, else everythin’ ’ud be fair topsy-turvy.”
John wedged his pipe firmly in the corner of his mouth, put his gun under his arm, and, taking his thick stick from the chimney corner, set forth, without vouchsafing any answer; he limped painfully as he walked, and Mrs. Guppy, looking sorrowfully after him, opined that he’d have had enough of it afore he’d gone half a mile. But though she had been wedded to John for thirty-five years, she had not yet learned the quality of his spirit; he uttered many groans as he shambled along, and lifted the poor limb, which had so long been well-nigh useless, with increasing effort, but he held bravely on his way until he reached his destination, a vast stretch of land, half park, half down, peopled by innumerable rabbits and furnished with copses and plantations, which no doubt afforded cover to game of every kind. Here John paused for the first time, turned his head on one side, clicked his tongue and jerked forward his gun with a knowing air as a rabbit crossed his path.
“If ’t ’ad ha’ been loaded I’d ha’ made short work o’ thee, my bwoy,” he remarked. “There don’t seem to be so many o’ you about as there did used to be i’ my time, though—not by a long ways. That there noo chap ’ull ha’ let ye go down, I reckon. There bain’t many like poor old Jan Guppy—nay, I’ll say that for ye, Jan. You was worth your salt while you were about—’e-es, and so long as ye be above ground I d’ ’low you’ll make it worth Squire’s while to keep ye.”
Having delivered this tribute to himself with a conscientiously impartial air, he proceeded on his way, and presently came in sight of the keeper’s cottage, or rather lodge, set midway in the long avenue which led to the Squire’s mansion, and smiled to himself at the sudden out-cry of canine voices which greeted his approach.
“There they be, the beauties! That’s Jet—I’d know her bark among a thousand. I d’ ’low she knows my foot,” as one voice detached itself from the chorus and exchanged its warning note for a strangled whine of rapture. “She’ll break that chain o’ hers if they don’t let her loose. ’Ullo, Jet, old girl! Hi, Rover! Pull up, Bess!”
All the barks had now ceased, and a pointer came scurrying to the gate, followed by a large retriever.
“There ye be, my lads—too fat, too fat. Ah, they be feedin’ o’ them too well now—not so good for work, I d’ ’low! Poor old Jet! Ye be tied-up, bain’t ye? There, we’ll come to ye.”
Passing through the wicket-gate, he was limping unceremoniously round to the back of the cottage, when the door was thrown open and the astonished figure of the keeper’s wife appeared in the aperture.
“Mornin’, mum,” said John, lifting his hand half-way to his forelock, which was his nearest approach to a polite salutation when in parley with folks of Mrs. Sanders’ degree. “I be Mr. Guppy, what was keeper here afore your master. I be jist come to take a look about.”