He rolled and lolled in his chair, now taking a sip of coffee, now a
bite of anchovy toast, now considering whether he durst venture on an egg,
and again having recourse to the _Post_. At last, having exhausted all the
light reading in it, and scanned through the list of hunting appointments,
he took up the Swillingford paper to see that they had got his 'meets'
right for the next week. How astonished he was to find the previous day's
run staring him in the face, headed 'SPLENDID RUN WITH MR. PUFFINGTON'S
HOUNDS,' in the imposing type here displayed. 'Well, that's quick work,
however,' said he, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in astonishment, and
thinking how unlike it was the Swillingford papers, which were always a
week, but generally a fortnight behindhand with information. 'Splendid run
with Mr. Puffington's hounds,' read he again, wondering who had done it:
Bardolph, the innkeeper; Allsop, the cabinet-maker; Tuggins, the doctor,
were all out; so was Weatherhog, the butcher. Which of them could it be?
Grimes, the editor, wasn't there; indeed, he couldn't ride, and the country
was not adapted for a gig.
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