“With all my heart,” responded the delighted Wotherspoon, adding, in the excitement of the moment, “S’pose you come to breakfast?”
“Breakfast,” gasped the Major, feeling he was caught. “Dash it, what would Mrs. Yammerton say? Breakfast!” repeated he, running the matter through his mind, the wigging of his wife, the walk of his hound, the chance of keeping the old boy to the fore if he went—go he would. “With all my heart,” replied he, dashing boldly at the oiler; for it’s of no use a man saying he’s engaged to breakfast, and the Major felt that if the worst came to the worst, it would only be to eat two, one at home, the other with Spoon.
So it was settled, much to Mr. and Mrs. Wotherspoon’s satisfaction, who were afterwards further delighted to hear that our friend Billy had returned, and would most likely be of the party. And most assiduously they applied themselves to provide for this, the great event of their lives.
CHAPTER LIV.
MR. WOTHERSPOON’S DÉJEUNER À LA FOURCHETTE.
