“Oh-o-o-o!” shrieked he, wrinkling his face up like a Norfolk biffin, and hopping about as if he was dancing a hornpipe.
“Oh-o-o-o!” went he again, on setting it down to try if he could stand.
“I really beg you ten thousand pardons!” now exclaimed the disconcerted Major, endeavouring to pacify him. “I really beg you ten thousand pardons; but I thought you were ever so far behind.”
“So did I, I’m sure,” assented Mrs. Wotherspoon.
“You’re such a gay young chap, and step so smartly, you’d tread on any body’s heels,” observed the Major jocularly.
“Well, but it was a pincher, I assure you,” observed Wotherspoon, still screwing up his mouth.
At length he got his foot down again, and the assault party was reformed, the Major and Mrs. Wotherspoon again leading, old Spoon limping along at a more respectful distance with Mrs. Broadfurrow, while the gentlemen brought up the rear with the general body of pedestrians, who now deserted Solomon and the hounds in order to see poor puss started from her form. Solomon was to keep out of sight until she was put away.
Passing through the little American blighted orchard, and what Spoon magnificently called his kitchen garden, consisting of a dozen grass-grown gooseberry bushes, and about as many winter cabbages, they came upon a partially-ploughed fallow, with a most promising crop of conch grass upon the unturned part, the hungry soil looking as if it would hardly return the seed.
“Fine country! fine country!” muttered the Major, looking around on the sun-bright landscape, and thinking he could master it whichever way the hare went. Up Sandywell Lane for Martinfield Moor, past Woodrow Grange for Linacres, and through Farmer Fulton’s fold-yard for Witherton.
Oh, yes, he could do it; and make a very good show out of sight of the ladies.