CHAPTER XXI 



COLONEL CODSHEAD ; 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." — Jorrock'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 



beginningof the next. Sea- 

 son 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 lascivious 



