“Why, if you must know the meaning of all this, I will tell you. The Hon. Philip Martindale is—”
“Is gone out shooting,” interrupted the trusty Oliver: “he went out early this morning, sir.”
“Shooting with a long bow,” muttered the officer. “Shooting at this time of year, you rascal!” exclaimed Mr. Martindale: “why, you puppy, this is only the beginning of August.”
“I don’t mean shooting game, sir, but shooting with bow and arrow. He—he—is gone to—an archery meeting.”
“What! is he gone to an archery meeting in London? But pray, Mr. Oliver, can you tell me why he has been so careful of his own carriage as to take a hired chaise?”
“He was afraid, sir, that the journey might be rather too long for his own horses.”
“Yes,” interrupted the officer, “it would have been too far for his own horses to travel.”
“Hold your tongue, you puppy!” was the only acknowledgment which the speaker received for this corroboration of the trusty Oliver’s speech: then turning again to Oliver, Mr. Martindale continued:
“So your master is grown mightily merciful to his horses all on a sudden; and was he also afraid that his travelling chariot would be tired of the long journey? Was it too far for the carriage to travel?”