The news of a man being killed soon reached the hill, and drew the
attention of the mob from our hero and heroine, causing such a spread of
population over the farm as must have been highly gratifying to
Scourgefield, who stood watching the crashing of the fences and the
demolition of the gates, thinking how he was paying his landlord off.
Seeing the rude, unmannerly character of the mob, Jawleyford got his
lordship by the arm, and led him away towards the hill, his lordship
reeling, rather than walking, and indulging in all sorts of wild,
incoherent cries and lamentations.
'Sing out. Jack! sing out!' he would exclaim, as if in the agony of having
his hounds ridden over; then, checking himself, he would shake his head and
say, 'Ah, poor Jack, poor Jack! shall never look upon his like again--shall
never get such a man to read the riot act, and keep all square.' And then a
fresh gush of tears suffused his grizzly face.
The minor casualties of those few butchering spasmodic moments may be
briefly dismissed, though they were more numerous than most sportsmen see
out hunting in a lifetime.
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