Trumpington Wood
lay on their right, and that no doubt would have been the proper
draw. 'I suppose we must try it,' said Lord Chiltern.
Old Fowler looked very sour. 'You might as well look for a fox
under my wife's bed, my Lord.'
'I daresay we should find one there,' said one of the wags of the
hunt. Fowler shook his head, feeling that this was no time for
joking.
'It ought to be drawn,' said Chiltern.
'Of course you know best, my Lord. I wouldn't touch it,--never no
more. Let 'em all know what the Duke's Wood is.'
'This is Lord Silverbridge, the Duke's son,' said Chiltern
laughing.
'I beg his Lordship's pardon,' said Fowler, taking off his cap.
'We shall have a good time coming some day. Let me trot 'em off to
Michaelmas Daisies, my Lord. I'll be there in thirty minutes.' In
the neighbouring parish of St Michael de Dezier there was a
favourite little gorse which among hunting-men had acquired this
unreasonable name. After a little consideration the Master
yielded, and away they trotted.
'You'll cross the ford, Fowler?' asked Mrs Spooner.
Pages:
825
826
827
828
829
830
831
832
833
834
835
836
837
838
839
840
841
842
843
844
845
846
847
848
849