“Hoop, hoop, hoop!” went old Spoon, taking for granted it was a hare.
Crack! resounded Rintoul’s whip from afar.
“Haw, haw, haw! never saw anything like that!” roared the Major, holding his sides.
“Why, it’s a cat!” exclaimed the now enlightened Mrs. Wotherspoon, opening wide her pretty eyes as she retraced her steps towards where he stood.
“Cat, ay, to be sure, my dear! why, it’s your own, isn’t it?” demanded our gallant Master.
“No; ours is a grey—that’s a tabby,” replied she, returning him his whip.
“Grey or tab, it’s a cat,” replied the Major, eyeing puss climbing up a much-lopped ash-tree in the next hedge.
“Why, Spoon, old boy, don’t you know a cat when you see her?” demanded he, as his chagrined host now came pottering towards them.
“I thought it was a hare, ‘pon honour, as we say in the Lords,” replied the old buck, bowing and consoling himself with a copious pinch of snuff.
“Well, it’s a sell,” said the Major, thinking what a day he had lost.