I looked at young Plumtree with a kind of loathing pity. I thought of what his deplorable state would be, when all the pleasures of his present existence should have palled upon him in the pursuit of the unattainable; when ’baccy should have lost its soothing properties, and there should be no more charm in beer; when dogs might “delight to bark and bite,” and Plumtree, _quantum mutatus_, would care not which half-stifled champion was dragged gurgling and snarling “across the line;” when the three-pound terrier, eating its own weight a dozen times over in rats, would no longer excite his garrulous plaudits as he hung half muzzy over the pit; and to shoot pigeons for a fat pig, or see a man trundling a wheelbarrow backwards, and picking up stones with his mouth, would be equally tasteless and insipid; nay, when counting out the game-cock himself, prone on the square-cut turf, but of mettle invincible, from the top of the clean-cut comb to the points of his steel spurs, would be considered simply a dull but cruel pastime, and like Othello’s in his fancied degradation, Plumtree’s “occupation would be gone.” All unconscious of my forebodings, their confiding object pulled a square and heavily-sealed note from what I believe Mr. Poole terms the “opossum pocket” of his shooting-jacket, and handed it to me with the mock dignity of an ambassador presenting his credentials, winking demurely on Miss Lushington the while. “Can you read?” inquired the facetious envoy. “If so, there’s a bit of blotting from the old folks at home. I told the governor that as you weren’t fit to do much ‘scraping,’ I’d best bring it over, and take back the answer by word of mouth. But you’ll come, won’t you? It’s a crafty crib enough, The Ashes, and you’ll get your health there as well as here for a day or so. I can’t say much for the biting, but there’s some lining with a green seal to it, that will set your collar-bone for you, make your hair curl tight up to the roots, and bring you down to-morrow morning, as fresh as a bull-calf, and as hearty as a buck.” There was no resisting such inducements as these, and indeed the letter of Mr. Plumtree senior, though extremely pompous and ceremonious, was hospitable, considerate, and kind. Though almost a stranger, he hoped that I would excuse our short acquaintance, and dine with him at The Ashes, adding, that as I ought not to expose myself to cold from the night-air, he trusted that I would take a bed.