WHO IS TO KIDE HIM? 



In a remote and lonely part of Dorsetshire stood, 

 in a beautifully-wooded park, a fine old mansion, 

 Bradon Hall, belonging to George Bradon, Esq., 

 who at the time I speak of was about eight-and- 

 twenty. 



He was one of the old school, as his father had 

 been before him. Early in life he had been placed 

 in a crack regiment of Dragoons, so he was not 

 without a pretty good knowledge of the world for 

 his age. Allowed a liberal sum by his father, he 

 had never exceeded it ; on the contrary, there was 

 generally a fair balance at the end of the year in 

 the hands of his agent. 



He was a remarkably handsome young fellow. 

 Bred up in the country, and left to do pretty nearly 

 as he liked, it was not wonderful he turned out an 

 adept at all sorts of sports. 



A good cricketer, a still better fisherman, a mag- 

 nificent shot, and not only the straightest but the 

 best rider in the country ; indeed riding was his 

 forte. Not so with our late friend Artemus Ward 

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