gentleman, and Browne fancied himself no bad hand at it; indeed, since
his London occupation was gone, he looked upon himself as a country
gentleman in fact. "Vell, Joe," said he, striddling and sticking his
thumbs into the arm-holes of his waistcoat, to this invaluable man of
all work, "we must show the gemmem some sport to-day; vich do you think
the best line to start upon--shall we go to the ten hacre field, or the
plantation, or Thompson's stubble, or Timms's turnips, or my meadow, or
vere?" "Vy, I doesn't know," said Joe; "there's that old hen-pheasant as
we calls Drab Bess, vot has haunted the plantin' these two seasons, and
none of us ever could 'it (hit), and I hears that Jack, and Tom, and
Bob, are still left out of Thompson's covey; but, my eyes! they're
'special vild!" "Vot, only three left? where is old Tom, and the old
ramping hen?" inquired Browne. "Oh, Mr. Smith, and a party of them 'ere
Bankside chaps, com'd down last Saturday's gone a week, and rattled
nine-and-twenty shots at the covey, and got the two old 'uns; at least
it's supposed they were both killed, though the seven on 'em only bagged
one bird; but I heard they got a goose or two as they vent home. They
had a shot at old Tom, the hare, too, but he is still alive; at least
I pricked him yesterday morn across the path into the turnip-field.
Suppose we goes at him first?"

The estate, like the game, was rather deficient in quantity, but Browne
was a wise man and made the most of what he had, and when he used to
talk about his "manor" on 'Change, people thought he had at least a
thousand acres--the extent a cockney generally advertises for, when he
wants to take a shooting-place. The following is a sketch of what he
had: The east, as far as the eye could reach, was bounded by Norwood,
a name dear to cockneys, and the scene of many a furtive kiss; the
hereditaments and premises belonging to Isaac Cheatum, Esq. ran parallel
with it on the west, containing sixty-three acres, "be the same more or