“Ca-ca-capital hounds,” observed the Major.
No response from Billy.
“Undeniable b-b-blood,” continued our friend.
No response again.
“F-f-foxhounds in mi-mi-miniature,” observed the Major.
“Yarse,” replied Billy, who understood that.
“Lovely! Lovely! Lovely! there’s a beautiful bitch,” continued the Major, pointing to a richly pied one that began frolicking to his call.
“Bracelet! Bracelet! Bracelet!” holloaed he to another; “pretty bitch that—pure Sir Dashwood King’s blood, just the right size for a haryer—shouldn’t be too large. I hold with So-so-somerville,” continued the Major, waxing warm, either with his subject, or at Billy’s indifference, “that one should
‘A di-di-different hound for every chase
Select with judgment; nor the timorous hare,
O’ermatch’d, destroy; but leave that vile offence
To the mean, murderous, coursing crew, intent
On blood and spoil.’”
“Yarse,” replied Billy, turning on his heel as though he had had enough of the show.