From the pockets of his ulster, which it was found necessary to turn out for drying purposes, Mr William Doyle extracted no less than six brace of snipe. Unfortunately for Mr Simpson the bill was attached to the leg of one of the birds. They had been purchased at a poulterer's in Dublin.
Mr Simpson did not remain to dine or to sleep. He pleaded a business engagement which he had completely overlooked, and left by the 4.50 train.
"Av all th' imposthors! and his tigers an' elephants no less, an' bears an' algebras! An' goin' for to cod me into believin' there was snipes growin' in a clover-field, an' thin never to gi' me a shillin'! Pah! the naygur!" and Billy Doyle's resentment recognised no limits.
It is scarcely necessary to observe that I was not invited to meet Lord Mulligatawny, Sir Percy Whiffler, and Colonel Owlfinch of Her Majesty's Guards, and that my wife holds Simpson over me whenever I hint at the probability of a visit to the metropolis.
PODGER'S POINTER
I am not a sporting man—I never possessed either a dog or a gun—I never fired a shot in my life, and the points of a canine quadruped are as unknown to me as those of the sea-serpent. The 12th of August is a mystery, and the 1st of September a sealed book. I have been regarded with well-merited contempt at the club by asking for grouse in the month of June, and for woodcock in September. I think it is just as well to mention these matters, lest it should be supposed that I desire to sail under false colours. I am acquainted with several men who shoot, and also with some who have shooting to give away. The former very frequently invite me to join their parties at the moors, turnip-fields, and woods; the latter press their shooting on me, especially when I decline on the grounds of disinclination and incapacity.
"I wish I had your chances, Brown," howls poor little Binks, who can bring down any known bird at any given distance. "You're always getting invitations because you can't shoot; and I cannot get one because I can. It's too bad, by George!—it's too bad!"
One lovely morning in the month of September I was sauntering along the shady side of Sackville Street, Dublin, when a gentleman, encased in a coat of a resounding pattern, all over pockets, and whose knickerbockers seemed especially constructed to meet the requirements of the coat, suddenly burst upon, and clutched me.