WHILE the ladies were absent adorning themselves, the gentlemen held a council of war as to the most advisable mode of dealing with the hare, aud the best way of making her face a good country. The Major thought if they could set her a-going with her head towards Martinfield-heath, they would stand a good chance of a run; while Broadfurrow feared Borrowdale brook would be in the way.
“Why not Linacres?” asked Mr. Rintoul, who preferred having the hounds over any one’s farm but his own.
“Linacres is not a bad line,” assented the Major thoughtfully; “Linacres is not a bad line, ‘specially if she keeps clear of Minsterfield-wood and Dowland preserve; but if once she gets to the preserve it’s all U. P., for we should have as many hares as hounds in five minutes, to say nothing of Mr. Grumbleton reading the riot act among us to boot.”
“I’ll tell ye how to do, then,” interposed fat Mr. Nettlefold, holding his coat laps behind him as he protruded his great canary-coloured stomach into the ring; “I’ll tell you how to do, then. Just crack her away back over this way, and see if you can’t get her for Witherton and Longworth. Don’t you mind,” continued he, button-holeing the Major, “what a hunt we had aboot eighteen years since with a har we put off old Tommy Carman’s stubble, that took us reet away over Marbury Plot, the Oakley hill, and then reet down into Woodbury Yale, where we killed?”
“To be sure I do!” exclaimed the delighted Major, his keen eyes glistening with pleasure at the recollection. “The day Sam Snowball rode into Gallowfield bog and came out as black as a sweep—I remember it well. Don’t think I ever saw a better thing. If it had been a—a—certain somebody’s hounds (he, he, he!), whose name I won’t mention (haw, haw, haw!), we should never have heard the last of it (he, he, he!).”
While this interesting discussion was going on, old Wotherspoon who had been fumbling at the lock of the cellaret, at length got it open, and producing therefrom one of those little square fibre-protected bottles, with mysterious seals and hieroglyphical labels, the particoloured letters leaning different ways, now advanced, gold-dotted liquor-glass in hand, towards the group, muttering as he came, “Major Yammerton, will you ‘blege me with your ‘pinion of this Maraschino di Zara, which my wine merchants recommend to me as something very ‘tickler,” pouring out a glass as he spoke, and presenting it to his distinguished guest.
“With all my heart,” replied the Major, who rather liked a glass of liquor; adding, “we’ll all give our opinion, won’t we, Pringle?” appealing to our hero.
“Much pleasure,” replied Billy, who didn’t exactly know what it was, but still was willing to take it on trust.
“That’s right,” rejoined old Spoon; “that’s right; then ‘blege me,” continued he, “by helping yourselves to glasses from the sideboard,” nodding towards a golden dotted brood clustering about a similarly adorned glass jug like chickens around a speckled hen.
At this intimation a move was made to the point; and all being duly provided with glasses, the luscious beverage flowed into each in succession, producing hearty smacks of the lips, and “very goods” from all.