WHAT a commotion there was in the house the next morning! As great a disturbance as if the Major had been going to hunt an African Lion, a royal Bengal Tiger, or a Bison itself. Ring-ring-ring-ring went one bell, tinkle-tinkle-tinkle went another, ring-ring-ring went the first again, followed by exclamations of “There’s master’s bell again!” with such a running down stairs, and such a getting up again. Master wanted this, master wanted that, master had carried away the buttons at his knees, master wanted his other pair of White what-do-they-call-ems—not cords, but moleskins—that treacherous material being much in vogue among masters of harriers. Then master’s boots wouldn’t do, he wanted his last pair, not the newly-footed ones, and they were on the trees, and the Bumbler was busy in the stable, and Betty Bone could not skin the trees, and altogether there was a terrible hubbub in the house. His overnight exertions, though coupled with the castor oil catastrophe, seemed to have abated none of his ardour in pursuit of the hare.
Meanwhile our little dandy, Billy, lay tumbling and tossing in bed, listening to the dread preparations, wishing he could devise an excuse for declining to join him. The recollection of his bumps, and his jumps, and his falls, arose vividly before him, and he would fain have said “no” to any more. He felt certain that the Major was going to give him a startler, more dreadful perhaps than those he had had with his lordship. Would that he was well out of it! What pleasure could there be in galloping after an animal they could shoot? In the midst of these reflections Mons. Rougier entered the apartment and threw further light on the matter by opening the shutters.
“You sall get up, sare, and pursue the vild beast of de voods—de Major is a-goin’ to hont.”
“Y-a-r-se,” replied Billy, turning over.
“I sal get out your habit verd, your green coat, dat is to say.”
“No! no!” roared Billy; “the red! the red!”
“De red!” exclaimed Monsieur in astonishment, “de red Not for de soup dogs! you only hont bold reynard in de red.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” retorted Billy, “didn’t the Major come to the carstle in red?”
“Because he came to hont de fox,” replied Monsieur; “if he had com’ for to hont poor puss he would ‘ave ‘ad on his green or his grey, or his some other colour.”
Billy now saw the difference, and his mortification increased. “Well, I’ll breakfast in red at all events,” said he, determined to have that pleasure.