'
The third cheroot brought Jack and his suite within sight of Hanby House.
Mr. Puffington had about got through all the fuss of his preparations,
arranged the billets of the guests and of those scarcely less important
personages--their servants, allotted the stables, and rehearsed the wines,
when a chance glance through the gaily furnished drawing-room window
discovered Jack trudging up the trimly kept avenue.
'Here's that nasty Spraggon,' exclaimed he, eyeing Jack dragging his legs
along, adding, 'I'll be bound to say he'll never think of wiping his filthy
feet if I don't go to meet him.'
So saying, Puffington rushed to the entrance, and crowning himself with a
white wide-awake, advanced cheerily to do so.
Jack, who was more used to 'cold shoulder' than cordial reception, squinted
and stared with surprise at the unwonted warmth, so different to their last
interview, when Jack was fresh out of his clay-hole in the Brick Fields;
but not being easily put out of his way, he just took Puff as Puff took
him. They talked of Scamperdale, and they talked of Frostyface, and the
number of foxes he had killed, the price of corn, and the difference its
price made in the keep of hounds and horses.
Pages:
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516