“The devil take it, man,” responded I; “I can no more walk thirty miles without my breakfast, than I can leap a thirty foot fen ditch without a pole. Breakfast—by George! I must have some breakfast, or no snipe to-day. Holloa! Eustace, holloa! I must have prog of some kind—what can you give me?” “I will find something, Mr. Forester, I’ll warrant you,” replied the gyp, kicking the door open with his right foot, and pulling it to behind him with his left as he entered, both his hands being occupied in bearing a well-appareled tray—fresh tea, kidneys red-hot, rolls smoking, and, to complete the whole, prawn curry. “Now, then, be smart, Frank,” shouted my comrade, “I hear the gray cob stamping at the door, and I don’t keep him waiting over ten minutes—no not for the emperor of all the Chinas!” Within ten minutes the kidneys had disappeared, the prawn curry was not, the second teapot was empty, no crust or crumb of the hot rolls remained to hint to future generations what they had been; and to wash down the whole, and settle our stomachs for the day, George and I had absorbed a thimblefull a piece of the real mountain-dew of Glenlivet. The dogs were stowed under the seat; the guns, in their leather cases, strapped to the top-rail of the dog-cart; our sporting toggery concealed from keen eyes of proctors by heavy driving-coats; and, within the given period of ten minutes, the lively little gray was stepping it out gallantly at 12 miles the hour, snatching at its steel curb, and tossing its proud head, as if it had not got some forty stone behind it. Down Jesus lane we bowled, rattling over the rough cobblestones, and bringing all the helpers out of Sparrow’s livery-stable to see what was in the wind, past Stourbridge Common, and up the hill toward Barnwell, hamlet of unclean notoriety, peopled entirely, of men, by dog-fanciers, rat-hunters, pigeon-shooters, and the lowest of that tribe ycleped the fancy; and of women, by those unfortunates, who have to ears polite no appellation. Through that ill den we rattled merrily, heedless of the clamors which followed us, and soon reached Paper-mill Bar, on the Newmarket road, with its high turnpike gates placed on the keystone of a one-arched bridge spanning a deep and turbid stream, flowing from the fens to the Cam in devious curves through the deep meadow-land. Here Gordon pulled up for the moment, and while he was paying the toll, pointed to a bit of splashy ground, not thirty yards from the road-side to the right hand. “If you will jump out with your gun, Frank—never mind taking a dog along—you’ll flush a couple or two of snipe in that pool. Get a double shot, if you can, but don’t wait to follow them. We are behind time, even now.”