'Well,' spluttered
he, pulling up, and sitting, as he thought, quite straight in the saddle,
'we've had the finest day's sport and the most equitable drink I've enjoyed
for many a long day. 'Ord bless us, what a gent that Sir 'Arry is! He's the
sort of man that should have money. I'm blowed, if I were queen, but I'd
melt all the great blubber-headed fellows like this 'ere Crowdey down, and
make one sich man as Sir 'Arry out of the 'ole on 'em. Beer! they don't
know wot beer is there! nothin' but the werry strongest hale, instead of
the puzzon one gets at this awful mean place, that looks like nothin' but
the weshin' o' brewers' haprons. Oh! I 'umbly begs pardon,' exclaimed he,
dropping from his horse on to his knees on discovering that he was
addressing Mr. Crowdey--'I thought it was Robins, the mole-ketcher.'
'Thought it was Robins, the mole-catcher,' growled Jog; 'what have you to
do with (puff) Robins, the (wheeze) mole-catcher?'
Jog boiled over with indignation. At first he thought of kicking Leather, a
feat that his suppliant position made extremely convenient, if not
tempting.
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