The object, for which Mr Smythje was thus having his person apparelled, was a shooting excursion to the hills, which he designed making, in order to vary his pleasures by committing havoc among the ramier pigeons and wild guinea-fowl which, he had been told, abounded there.
The projected expedition was not any grand affair by appointment—merely an ordinary, improvised thing. The sportsman intended going alone—as the Custos on that day had some important business at the Bay; and Mr Smythje, by a ramble through the neighbouring woods, fancied he might kill the time between breakfast and dinner pleasantly enough. This was all that was intended; and a darkey to guide him all that was needed.
“Weally!” resumed the exquisite, after some moments spent in enthusiastic admiration of his person, “weally, Thoms, these Queeole queetyaws are chawming—positively chawming! Nothing in the theataw or opwa at all to compare with them. Such lovely eyes! such divine figaws! and such easy conquests! Ba Jawve! I can count a dozen alweady! Haw, haw!” added he, with a self-gratulatory giggle, “it’s but natywal that—dawnt yaw think so, Thoms?”
“Parfectly natyeral, your honner,” replied Thoms, “considherin’ yer honner’s good looks.”
“Aw haw! that’s it, Thoms—that’s it. They can’t wesist.”
Either the lady-killer was not content with his twelve easy conquests, and wished to have the number more complete by making it “the baker’s dozen”—either this, or he was uncertain about his victory over one of the twelve—as would appear by the dialogue that followed between him and his confidential man.
“Hark yaw, Thoms!” said he, approaching the valet in a more serious way; “yaw are an exceedingly intelligent fellaw—yaw are, ’pon honnaw.”
“Thank yer honner. It’s keepin’ yer honner’s company has made me so.”
“Nevaw mind—nevaw mind what—but I have observed yaw intelligence.”
“It’s at yer honner’s humble sendee.”