It was after a more
than usual libation that Watchorn, trotting merrily along with the hounds,
having accomplished three blank days in succession, asked himself, as he
looked upon the surrounding vale from the rising ground of Hammercock Hill,
with the cream-coloured station and the rose-coloured hotel peeping through
the trees, whether something might not be done to give the latter a lift.
At first he thought of a pigeon match--a sweepstake open to all
England--fifty members say, at two pound ten each, seven pigeons, seven
sparrows, twenty-one yards rise, two ounces of shot, and so on. But then,
again, he thought there would be a difficulty in getting guns. A coursing
match--how would that do? Answer: 'No hares.' The farmers had made such an
outcry about the game, that the landowners had shot them all off, and now
the farmers were grumbling that they couldn't get a course.
'Dash my buttons!' exclaimed Watchorn; 'it would be the very thing for a
steeple-chase! There's old Puff's hounds, and old Scamp's hounds, and these
hounds,' looking down on the ill-sorted lot around him; 'and the deuce is
in it if we couldn't give the thing such a start as would bring down the
lads of the "village," and a vast amount of good business might be done.
Pages:
904
905
906
907
908
909
910
911
912
913
914
915
916
917
918
919
920
921
922
923
924
925
926
927
928