Mr. Samuel Shrub. 79 



''Ton my soul, I dunno," replies Famish, removing his 

 cigar from his mouth, and turning a very bloodshot look- 

 ing pair of eyes towards the v^indow. " Let's go down 

 into the hall," continues he, rising and giving himself a 

 hearty stretch. " Let's go down into the hall and see if 

 there's a telegram from that 'old wascal ' Shrub there." 



Accordingly the pair descend, and sure enough there is 

 the expected telegram staring them in the face. 



From To 



Samuel Shrub, Hall Porter, 



Daisyfield Arms, Junior Mars and Neptune Club. 



Bullerton, 

 Frost breaking up fast. My Lord sure to hunt to-morrow. 



" Hooray ! " exclaims Rag, in great glee, thinking how 

 he'll shove that chestnut five-year-old of his along. 



" Ha-hum ! I don't know, reely," says Famish, pulling 

 his moustache meditatively. " I don't believe they can 

 hunt to-morrow. Frost cant have got out of the ground 

 yet awhile. B'lieve it's a dodge of old Sammy's to get us 

 down there and drink his infernal champagne. No, no, I 

 shall wait a bit afore I go down. Rag, my boy." 



The fact is, if the truth must be told, that though a 

 hard man enough, when fit and well, the bold Captain 

 Famish's nerves are just now not quite the thing, don't 

 you know, and he can't help thinking how disagreeably 

 fresh his two nags will be on the morrow. He did not 

 bargain either for the frost breaking up quite so soon ; 

 consequently for the last ten days or so he has been making 

 freer with sodas and brandy, and the small hours of the 

 morning, than is conducive to riding with comfort, to say 

 nothing of boldness, over a country. 



Old Shrub is in his element on a hunting morning. 

 " Mornin', squire, mornin'," or " Mornin', captin', mornin' " 



