“If you can manage it,” replied Broadfurrow, well knowing that these sort of feats are much easier planned than performed.
“‘Spose we let Mrs. Wotherspoon put her away for us,” now suggested Mr. Rintonl.
“By all means!” rejoined the delighted Major; “by all means! She knows the spot, and will conduct us to it. Mrs. Wotherspoon,” continued he, stumping up to her as she now stood waiting in the little passage, “allow me to have the honour of offering you my arm;” so saying, the Major presented it to her, observing confidentially as they passed on to the now open front door, “I feel as if we were going to have a clipper!” lowering the ominous hat-string as he spoke.
“Solomon! Solomon!” cried he, to the patient huntsman, who had been waiting all this time with the hounds. “We are going! we are going!”
“Yes, Major,” replied Solomon, with a respectful touch of his cap.
“Now for it!” cried the Major, wheeling sharp round with his fair charge, and treading on old Wotherspoon’s gouty foot, who was following too closely behind with Mrs. Broadfurrow on his arm, causing the old cock to catch up his leg and spin round on the other, thus splitting the treacherous cords across the knee.
