24 AVARWICK WOODLANDS. 



by all that's wonderful, there was enough of the amari 

 aliquid in this fonte, to me by no means of loporum, to have 

 given an extra touch of bitterness to all the gall beneath 

 the canopy; and with my mouth puckered up, till it was 

 like anything on earth but a mouth, I set the glass down 

 on the table; and for the next five minutes could do no- 

 thing but shake my head to and fro like a Chinese 

 mandarin, amidst the loud and prolonged roars of laughter, 

 that burst like thunder claps from the huge jaws of Thom- 

 as Draw, and the subdued and half respectful cachinna- 

 tions of Tim Matlock. 



By the time I had got a little better, the black tea was 

 ready, and with thick cream, hot buckwheat cakes, beauti- 

 ful honey, and — as a stand by — the still venerable round, 

 we made out a very tolerable meal. 



This done, with due deliberation Archer supplied his 

 several pockets with their accustomed load — the clean- 

 punched wads in this — in that the Wesley Richards caps 

 — here a pound horn of powder — there a shot-pouch on 

 Sykes lever principle, with double mouth-piece — in an- 

 other, screw-driver, nipple-wrench, and the spare cones; 

 and, to make up the tale, dog-whip, dram-bottle, and silk 

 handkerchief in the sixth and last. 



"Nothing like method in this world,' said Harry, clap- 

 ping his low-crowned broad-brimmed moliair cap upon his 

 head ; "take my word for it. Now, Tim, what have you 

 got in the bag?" 



"A bottle of champagne, sur," answered Tim, who was 

 now employed slinging a huge fustian game-bag, with a 

 net-work front, over his right shoulder, to counterbalance 

 two full shot-belts which were already thrown across the 

 other — "a bottle of champagne, sur — a cold roast chicken 

 — t' Cheshire cheese — and t' pilot biscuits. Is your dram- 

 bottle filled wi' t' whiskey, please sur?" 



"Aye, aye, Tim. Now let loose the dogs — carry a pair 

 of couples and a leash along with you ; and mind you, 

 gentlemen, Tim carries shot for all hands; and luncheon 

 — but each one finds his own powder, caps, &c. ; and any 

 one who wants a dram, carries his own — the devil a-one 

 of you gets a sup out of my bottle, or a charge out of my 

 flask! That's right, old Trojan, isn't it?" with a good 

 slap on Tom's broad shoulder. 



"Shot! Shot— why Shot! don't you know me, old dog?" 



