Just then a long reverberating crack sounded through the courtyard, followed by the clattering of horses’ hoofs, and Wetun exclaiming, “Here be Sir Moses!” dropped the poor horse’s head, and hurried ont to meet his master, accompanied by Billy.
“Ah, Pringle!” exclaimed Sir Moses, gaily throwing his leg over his horse’s head as he alighted. “Ah, Pringle, my dear fellow, what, got you?”
“Well, what sport?” demanded Cuddy Flintoff, rushing up with eager anxiety depicted on his face.
“Very good,” replied Sir Moses, stamping the mud off his boots, and then giving himself a general shake; “very good,” repeated he; “found at Lobjolt Corse—-ran up the banks and down the banks, and across to Beatie’s Bog, then over to Deep-well Rocks, and back again to the banks.”
“Did you kill?” demanded Cuddy, not wanting to hear any more about the banks—up the banks or down the banks either.
“Why, no,” replied Sir Moses, moodily; “if that dom’d old Daddy Nevins hadn’t stuck his ugly old mug right in the way, we should have forced him over Willowsike Pastures, and doubled him up in no time, for we were close upon him; whereas the old infidel brought us to a check, aud we never could get upon terms with him again; but, come,” continued Sir Moses, wishing to cut short this part of the narrative, “let’s go into the house and get ourselves warmed, for the air’s cold, and I haven’t had a bite since breakfast.”
“Ay, come in!” cried Cuddy, leading the way; “come in, and get Mr. Pringle a drop of brandy, for he’s eat something that’s disagreed with him.”
“Eat something that’s disagreed with him. Sorry to hear that; what could it be?—what could it be?” asked Sir Moses, as the party now groped their way along the back passages.
“Why, I blame the partridge-pie,” replied Cuddy, demurely.
“Not a bit of it!” rejoined Sir Moses—“not a bit of it! eat some myself—eat some myself—will finish it now—will finish it now.”