The Pope's bull would be nothin' to it!'
'How so?' asked Sir Harry, puzzled with the jumble.
'How so?' repeated Watchorn; 'how so? Why, in the fust place, it's a mortal
'ard frost, 'arder nor hiron; in the second place, I've got no arrangements
made--you can't turn out a pack of 'igh-bred fox-'ounds as you would a lot
of "staggers" or "muggers"; and, in the third place, you'll knock all your
nags to bits, and they are a deal better in their wind than they are on
their legs, as it is. No, Sir 'Arry--no,' continued he, slowly and
thoughtfully. 'No, Sir 'Arry, no. Be Cardinal Wiseman, for once. Sir 'Arry;
be Cardinal Wiseman for once, and don't _think_ of it.'
'Well,' replied Sir Harry, looking at George Cheek, 'I suppose there's no
help for it.'
'It was quite a thaw where I came from,' observed Cheek, half to Sir Harry
and half to the huntsman.
''Deed, sir, 'deed,' replied Mr. Watchorn, with a chuck of his fringed
chin, 'it generally is a thaw everywhere but where hounds meet.'
'My Uncle Jollyboy wouldn't be stopped by such a frost as this,' observed
Cheek.
Pages:
848
849
850
851
852
853
854
855
856
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872