"Hunting may be sport, says I, but I'm blest if its pleasure."
Two days after the cricket-match, Mr. Crobble paid a visit to my master.
"Well, old fellow, d___ me me, if you ain't a trump—how's your wind?"—kindly enquired Mr. Timmis.
"Vastly better, thank'ye; how's Wallis and the other fellows?—prime sport that cricketing."
"Yes; but, I say, you'll never have 'a run' of luck, if you stick to the wicket so."
"True; but I made a hit or two, you must allow," replied Mr. Crobble; "though I'm afraid I'm a sorry member."
"A member, indeed!—no, no; you're the body, and we're the—members," replied Mr. Timmis, laughing; "but, halloo! what's that patch on your forehead—bin a fighting?"
"No; but I've been a hunting," said Mr. Crobble, "and this here's the fruits—You know my gray?"