He does not know me, thought Harry: now for astonishing him--rather! “_My_ name, sir, is--ahem!--Henry Coverdale, of Coverdale Park, at your service.” He paused to watch the effect of this announcement. Ha! I thought so, he trembles, he is--why, confound the scoundrel! I do believe he’s grinning--he can’t have understood me--“My name is Coverdale, I say, sir.” “Well then, Mr. Coverdale, if that’s your name, the sooner you take yourself back to Coverdale Park the better I shall be pleased, for I’m a shooting rabbits, and your jabbering scares the creeturs,” was the astounding rejoinder. Coverdale could scarcely believe his ears; however, he contrived by a strong effort to subdue his rising passion, as he answered; “If, as I imagine, you are the son of old Farmer Styles, of Wild Acre, you must be aware, sir, that the farm your father rents is _my_ property, and that the rabbits you are shooting are _my_ rabbits; I must, therefore, trouble you to hand over the one you have just killed, and to abstain from shooting entirely, except on any occasion when I may invite you to join me, or otherwise give you permission.” “I knows this, that father and I have got a thirty years’ lease to run, and that when I wants a day’s rabbiting, I means to take it, whether you likes it, or whether you doesn’t. Why, the old Admiral never said a word agen it; but he _was_ something like a gentleman, he was!” was the surly answer. Harry’s eyes flashed fire. “Do you mean to insinuate that _I_ am _not_ one then, fellow?” he asked in a voice that trembled with passion. “And suppose I does, what then? feller!” returned the other insolently. “This!” was the reply, as springing hastily forward, Coverdale struck Styles so violent a blow on the cheek with the back of his open hand, that he staggered and nearly fell;--recovering himself with difficulty, and holding one hand to his injured jaw, he muttered with an oath, “If it wasn’t for the confounded guns, I’d give you the heartiest thrashing ever you had in your life.”