“There's a man a coming, old fellow,” said an urchin, grinning.
“A man coming! vich vay? do tell me vich vay?” supplicated the sportsman. The little rogue, however, only stuck his thumb against his snub nose—winked, and ran off.
But Mr. Grubb was not long held in suspense; a volley of inelegant phrases saluted his ears, while the thong of a hunting-whip twisted playfully about his leg. Finding the play unequal, he wisely gave up the game—by dropping his bird on one side, and himself on the other; at the same time reluctantly leaving a portion of his nether garment behind him.
“Here you are!” cried his affectionate friend,—picking him up—“ain't you cotch'd it finely?”
“Ain't I, that's all?” said the almost breathless Mr. Grubb, “I'm almost dead.”
“Dead!—nonsense—to be sure, you may say as how you're off the hooks! and precious glad you ought to be.”
“Gracious me! Spriggs, don't joke; it might ha' bin werry serious,” said Mr. Grubb, with a most melancholy shake of the head:—“Do let's get out o' this wile place.”
“Vy, vat the dickins!” exclaimed Spriggs, “you ain't sewed up yet, are you?”
“No,” replied Grubb, forcing a smile in spite of himself, “I vish I vos, Spriggs; for I 've got a terrible rent here!” delicately indicating the position of the fracture.
And hereupon the two friends resolving to make no further attempt at bush-ranging, made as precipitate a retreat as the tangled nature of the preserve permitted.