of it, I'd break his neck. You can't appreciate the delights of
fly-fishing, doctor--you are no sportsman."

"No, I ain't," said the Doctor; "you never said anything truer than
that, James Buckley. I am nothing of the sort. When I was a young man,
I had a sort of brute instinct, which made me take the same sort of
pleasure in killing a boar that a cat does in killing a mouse; but I
have outlived such barbarism."

"Ha! ha!" said the Vicar; "and yet he gave ten shillings for a snipe.
And he's hand-and-glove with every poacher in the parish."

"The snipe was a new species, sir," said the Doctor indignantly; "and
if I do employ the hunters to collect for me, I see no inconsistency in
that. But I consider this fly-fishing mania just of a piece with your
IDIOTIC, I repeat it, IDIOTIC institution of fox-hunting. Why, if you
laid baits poisoned with NUX VOMICA about the haunts of those animals,
you would get rid of them in two years."

The Doctor used to delight in aggravating the Major by attacking
English sports; but he had a great admiration for them nevertheless.

The Major got out his wife's pony; and setting her on it, and handing
up the son and heir, departed home to dinner. They were hardly inside
the gate when Mrs. Buckley began:

"My dear husband, did you bring him to speak of the subject we were
talking about?"

"He went into it himself, wife, tooth and nail."