At length Tom Dribbler gave tongue—“What time will the hounds leave the kennel in the morning, Sir Moses?” asked he.
“Hoick to Dribbler! Hoick!” immediately cheered Cuddy—as if capping the pack to a find.
“Oh, why, let me see,” replied Sir Moses, filliping the ashes off the end of his cigar—“Let me see,” repeated he—“Oh—ah—tomorrow’s Monday; Monday, the Crooked Billet—Crooked Billet—nine miles—eight through Applecross Park; leave here at nine—ten to nine, say—nothing like giving them plenty of time on the road.”
“Nothing,” assented Cuddy Flintoff, taking a deep drain at his glass, adding, as soon as he could get his nose persuaded to come out of it again, “I do hate to see men hurrying hounds to cover in a morning.”
“No fear of mine doing that,” observed Sir Moses, “for I always go with them myself when I can.”
“Capital dodge, too,” assented Cuddy, “gets the fellers past the public houses—that drink’s the ruin of half the huntsmen in England;” whereupon he took another good swig.
“Then, Monsieur, and you’ll all go together, I suppose,” interrupted Dribbler, who wanted to see the fun.
“Monsieur, Monsieur—oh, ah, that’s my friend Pringle’s valet,” observed Sir Moses, drily; “what about him?”
“Why he’s going, isn’t he?” replied Dribbler.
“Oh, poor fellow, no,” rejoined Sir Moses; “he doesn’t want to go—it’s no use persecuting a poor devil because a Frenchman.”