Well--as I said before, it was a bright October evening, with the clear
sky, rich sunshine, and brisk breezy freshness, which indicate that
loveliest of the American months,--dinner was over, and with a pitcher
of the liquid ruby of Latour, a brace of half-pint beakers, and a score
--my contribution--of those most exquisite of smokables, the true old
Manila cheroots, we were consoling the inward man in a way that would
have opened the eyes, with abhorrent admiration, of any advocate of that
coldest of comforts--cold water--who should have got a chance peep at
our snuggery.
Suddenly, after a long pause, during which he had been stimulating his
ideas by assiduous fumigation, blowing off his steam in a long vapory
cloud that curled a minute afterward about his temples,--"What say you,
Frank, to a start tomorrow?" exclaimed Harry,--"and a week's right good
shooting?"
"Why, as for that," said I, "I wish for nothing better--but where the
deuce would you go to get shooting?"
"Never fash your beard, man," he replied, "I'll find the ground and the
game too, so you'll find share of the shooting!--Holloa! there--Tim, Tim
Matlock."
And in brief space that worthy minister of mine host's pleasures made
his appearance, smoothing down his short black hair, clipped in the
orthodox bowl fashion, over his bluff good-natured visage with one hand,
while he employed its fellow in hitching up a pair of most voluminous
unmentionables, of thick Yorkshire cord.
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