Those dinners of Lord Rufford's at
the Bush had been a special grief to him. The young lord had been
always courteous to him in the field, and he had been able, as he
thought, to requite such courtesy by little attentions in the way
of game preserving. If pheasants from Dillsborough Wood ate
Goarly's wheat, so did they eat Larry Twentyman's barley. He had a
sportsman's heart, above complaint as to such matters, and had
always been neighbourly to the lord. No doubt pheasants and hares
were left at his house whenever there was shooting in the
neighbourhood, which to his mother afforded great consolation. But
Larry did not care for the pheasants and hares. Had he so pleased
he could have shot them on his own land; but he did not preserve,
and, as a good neighbour, he regarded the pheasants and hares as
Lord Rufford's property. He felt that he was behaving as a
gentleman as well as a neighbour, and that he should be treated as
such. Fred Botsey had dined at the Bush with Lord Rufford, and
Larry looked on Fred as in no way better than himself.
Now at last the invitation had come. He was asked to a day's
shooting and to dine with the lord and his party at the inn. How
pleasant would it be to give a friendly nod to Runciman as he went
into the room, and to assert afterwards in Botsey's hearing
something of the joviality of the evening.
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