"My dear boy, I don't mind. You know we old fogies used to have our bad habits--two bottles of port after dinner, to run down into our legs and make gouty pains, eh, Charley--eh? And look here, my dear boy--look here!" Charley Vining laughed, and, leaning back in his chair, began to send huge clouds of perfumed smoke from his cabana, as his father drew out a handsome gold-box, and took snuff _a la_ courtier of George the Fourth's day. "I don't like smoking, my boy; but it's better than our old drinking habits." "Hear--hear! Cheers from the opposition!" laughed the son. "Ah, my dear boy, why don't you give your mind to that sort of thing? Such a fine opening as there is in the county! Writtlum says they could get you in with a tremendous majority." "Parliament, dad? Nonsense! Pretty muff I should be; get up to speak without half-a-dozen words to say." "Nonsense, Charley--nonsense! The Vinings never yet disgraced their name." "Unworthy scion of the house, my dear father." "Now, my dear Charley!" exclaimed Sir Philip, as he looked with pride at the stalwart young fellow who was heir to his baronetcy and broad acres. "But, let me see, my dear boy; John Martingale called yesterday while you were out. He says he has as fine a hunter as ever crossed country: good fencer, well up to your weight--such a one as you would be proud of I told him to bring the horse on for you to see; for I should not like you to miss a really good hunter, Charley, and I might be able to screw out a cheque." "My dear father," exclaimed the young man, throwing his cigar-end beneath the grate, "there really is no need. Martingale's a humbug, and only wants to palm upon us some old screw. The mare is in splendid order--quite got over my reckless riding and the fall. I like her better every day, and she'll carry me as much as I shall want to hunt." "I'm glad you like her, Charley. You don't think her to blame?" "Blame? No! I threw her down. I like her better every day, I tell you. But you gave a cool hundred too much for her." "Never mind that. By the way, Charley, Leathrum says they are hatching plenty of pheasants: the spinneys will be full this season; and I want you to have some good shooting. The last poacher, too, has gone from the village." "Who's that?" said Charley carelessly. "Diggles--John Diggles. They brought him before me for stealing pheasants' eggs, and I--and I--" "Well, what did you do, dad? Fine him forty shillings?" "Well, no, my boy. You see, he threw himself on my mercy--said he'd such a character no one would employ him, and that he wanted to get out of the country; and that if he stopped he should always be meddling with the game. And you see, my dear boy, it's true enough; so I promised to pay his passage to America." "A pretty sort of a county magistrate!" laughed Charley. "What do you think the reverend rectors, Lingon and Braceby, will say to you? Why, they would have given John Diggles a month."