CHAPTER XXIII 



A PLEA FOR THE OLD RED RAG, BEING AN INTERVIEW 

 WITH JORROCKS'S GHOST 



The frost after last New Year was a desperately hard 

 one and threatened long continuance. Happily, the 

 threat was unfulfilled, but the time was dreary to 

 me, though shooting, or rather, walking, with a gun, 

 in search of evasive snipe or casual duck in unfrozen 

 fen ditches, served to keep the weight down and the 

 temper too. These expeditions brought one home 

 weary, and seldom heavy laden, but always with keen 

 anticipation of the dinner-hour. 



In such hard times the frozen-out fox-hunter has no 

 need to take thought for the morning. There is no 

 " sending on " to be considered, and no early breakfast 

 or start renders necessary a curtailment of the evening 

 symposium in the smoking-room. 



I must confess, then, to a lengthened sojourn in the 

 depths of my favourite arm-chair on these cold 

 evenings. The tobacco would sink low in the jar, 

 and while the snow pattered lightly on the pane a 

 bright copper kettle occasionally sang cheerily on the 

 hob. On one particularly frosty night, when the 

 daily papers had been thoroughly digested, it is pos- 



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