“Well, sir, what you think proper,” replied Spoon, taking a heavy pinch of snuff, and looking at the empty bottles on the table.
“The hare, you say, is close at hand,” observed our master of hounds.
“Close at hand, close at hand—at the corner of my field, in fact,” assented Wotherspoon, as if there was no occasion to be in a hurry.
“Then let’s be at her!” exclaimed the Major rising with wine-inspired confidence, and feeling that it would require a very big fence to stop him with the hounds in full cry.
“Well, but we are going to see you, ain’t we?” asked Mrs. Wotherspoon.
“By all means,” replied our Master; adding, “but hadn’t you better get your bonnet on?”
“Certainly,” rejoined Mrs. Wotherspoon, looking significantly at Mrs. Broadfurrow; whereupon the latter rose, and with much squeezing, and pardoning, and thank-you-ing, the two succeeded in effecting a retreat. The gentlemen then began kicking their legs about, feeling as though they would not want any dinner that day.