162 THE HUNTING FIELD 



sentiment that he would break his neck some night 

 going to bed drunk, built it all on the ground floor. 

 Unfortunately, however, he sunk a well, which did 

 his business quite as effectually as a staircase. 



Peter and Cottonwool began life about the same 

 time, that is to say, they commenced business about 

 the same time Peter's probationary saddle-work 

 being struck off the account, and it says much for 

 Cottonwool's sense that he has stemmed the dis- 

 pleasure of his fine, tight-sleeved, highly-flounced 

 daughters, and stood by the "friend of his youth," 

 as Lord Melbourne would say. 



Punch says, " the retired wholesales never visit the 

 retired retails," and we believe something of the same 

 sort of dignity pervades country life. 



In point of breeding there was not much to choose 

 between the progenitors, Cottonwool being the son 

 of the Duke of Blazington's saddler, his mother by 

 a butler out of a buxom dairymaid; while Peter's 

 maternal descent was a cross between a very respect- 

 able market gardener and a milliner. 



The Miss Cottonwools, however, do not carry their 

 inquiries into the region of pedigree ; they take things 

 as they are. Here are they, three fine, strapping, 

 slapping lasses, with a great green coach to ride in, 

 a sky-blue man to drive it, and another sky-blue man 

 to loll behind, accustomed to receive the admiration 

 of the first-class country bucks at the race and assize 

 balls, and they cannot be expected to tolerate this 

 dowdey old man in his drab shorts and grey worsted 

 stockings. "Really, if papa chooses to invite such 

 people to the house on company days, they ought to 

 dine in the kitchen," they say. 



Pigskin, indeed, according to the strict letter of 

 right, we believe, ought to take precedence of Cotton- 

 wool, he being a retired tradesman, while our friend 

 of the fine daughters still drives a brisk business, and 

 discourses learnedly on the produce of Albania, 



