CHAPTER XXI 



COLONEL CODSHEAD J OR, THE CLOSE OF THE SEASON 



" I knows no more melancholic ceremony than takin the 

 string out of one's at, and foldin hup the old red rag at the end 

 o' the season — a rag unlike all other rags, the dearer and more 

 hinterestin the older and more worthless it becomes." 



Torrock's Sportin Lector. 



ORD bless us ! here 

 comes old Colonel 

 Codshead — old we may 

 well call him, for we 

 have seen him cast up 

 at the end of fifteen 

 seasons, vowing each 

 time that he meant 

 to take to hunting in 

 "right earnest" at the 

 beginning of the next. 

 Season after season 

 have we seen the incursions of good living on his 

 frame, marked the slow progress of corpulence, as 

 layer after layer of fat has been added to his size. 

 Fourteen years ago, the colonel, though not slim, was 

 what might be called a fine stout healthy looking 

 man — full limbed, but not obese — ruddy, without 

 being pimply, blotchy, or purply. 



Now he looks like an over-fed alderman. His 



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