“Will you—a–ow?” yawned Fred: “I shall sketch. I mean to begin with the old woman’s hut.”
“What! do you mean to have your nose plucked off and your eyes torn out at the beginning of our holiday?”
“Not if I can help it, George; but I mean to run the risk—I mean to cultivate that old woman.”
“Hallo! hi!” shouted their father from below, while he tapped at the window with the end of a fishing-rod. “Look alive there, boys, else we’ll have breakfast without you.”
“Ay, ay, father!” Fred was up in a moment.
About two hours later, father and sons sallied out for a day’s sport, George with a fowling-piece, Fred with a sketch-book, and Mr Sudberry with a fishing-rod, the varnish and brass-work on which, being perfectly new, glistened in the sun.
“We part here, father,” said George, as they reached a rude bridge that spanned the river about half a mile distant from the White House. “I mean to clamber up the sides of the Ben, and explore the gorges. They say that ptarmigan and mountain hares are to be found there.”
The youth’s eye sparkled with enthusiasm; for, having been born and bred in the heart of London, the idea of roaming alone among wild rocky glens up among the hills, far from the abodes of men, made him fancy himself little short of a second Crusoe. He was also elated at the thought of firing at real wild birds and animals—his experiences with the gun having hitherto been confined to the unromantic practice of a shooting-gallery in Regent Street.
“Success to you, George,” cried Mr Sudberry, waving his hand to his son, as the latter was about to enter a ravine.
“The same to you, father,” cried George, as he waved his cap in return, and disappeared.