They killed nothing but time, yet they were exceedingly merry, especially during the discussion of the provisions. Their laughter, indeed, was enough to scare all the birds in the neighbourhood.
“Jim, if you wanted to correct those sheep yonder,” said Tom, “what sort of tool would you use?”
“An ewe-twig, of course,” replied my master.
“No; that's devilish good,” said Wallis; “but you ain't hit it yet.”
“For a crown you don't do a better?”
“Done!”
“Well, what is it?”
“Why, a Ram-rod to be sure—as we're sportsmen.”
My master agreed that it was more appropriate, and the good-natured Tom Wallis flung the crown he had won to me.
“Here's another,” continued he, as Mr. Timmis was just raising a bottle of pale sherry to his lips—“I say, Jim, what birds are we most like now?”