“D-a-a-vilish likely place for a hare,” continued old Wotherspoon, reconnoitring it through his double eye-glasses; “D-a-a-vilish likely place, indeed.”
“Oh, likely enough,” muttered the Major, with a chuck of his chin, “likely enough,—only it isn’t one, that’s all!”
“Well, I wish it had been,” replied the old boy.
“So do I,” simpered his handsome wife, drawing her fine lace-fringed kerchief across her lips.
The expectations of the day being thus disappointed, another council of war was now held, as to the best way of retrieving the misfortune. Wotherspoon, who was another instance of the truth of the observation, that a man who is never exactly sober is never quite drunk, was inclined to get back to the bottle. “Better get back to the house,” said he, “and talk matters quietly over before the fire;” adding, with a full replenishment of snuff up his nose, “I’ve got a batch of uncommonly fine Geisenheimer that I would like your ‘pinion of, Major,” but the Major, who had had wine enough, and wanted to work it off with a run, refused to listen to the tempter, intimating, in a whisper to Mrs. Spoon, who again hung on his arm, that her husband would be much better of a gallop.
And Mrs. Wotherspoon, thinking from the haziness of the old gentleman’s voice, and the sapient twinkling of his gooseberry eyes, that he had had quite enough wine, seconded this view of the matter; whereupon, after much backing and bowing, and shaking of hands, and showing of teeth, the ladies and gentlemen parted, the former to the fire, the latter to the field, where the performance of the pack must stand adjourned for another chapter.