"Seriously then, Lumley, I won't do anything of the kind. I do you the justice to believe, that you asked me here to enjoy myself; and that I am quite ready to do in any fairly rational manner; and I flatter myself I am in nowise particular; but as to going bogging myself among turnips, or staring into the faces and poking the ribs of short-horns and south-downs--why, as an old friend, you'll excuse me." "Hem! there's no accounting for tastes," said Lumley, in a half-disappointed tone. "No," said I, "there certainly is not." "Well, then," said he--he never lost his good humour--"what shall we do? I'll tell you--you remember Harry Bolton? rather your junior, but you must have known him well, because he was quite in our set from the first--to be sure, didn't you spill him out of a tandem at Abingdon corner? Well, he is living now about nine miles from here, and we'll drive over and see him. I meant to write to ask him to dine here, and this will save the trouble." "With all my heart," said I; "I never saw him since I left Oxford. I fancied I heard of his getting into some mess--involved in some way, was he not?" "Not involved exactly; but he certainly did make himself scarce from a very nice house and curacy which he had when he first left Oxford, and buried himself alive for I don't know how long, and all for the very queerest reason, or rather without any reason at all. Did you never hear of it?" "No; only some vague rumour, as I said just now." "You never heard, then, how he came into this neighbourhood? Have the dog-cart round in ten minutes, Sam, and we dine at seven. Now, get yourself in marching order, and I'll tell you the whole story as we go along." He did so, but it was so interrupted by continual expostulations with his horse, and remarks upon the country through which we were driving, that it will be at least as intelligible if I tell it in my own words; especially as I had many of the most graphic passages from Bolton's own lips afterwards.