"It is just September, and one must keep one's hand in," said Philip, as he reloaded his gun.
To Arthur this action seemed a wanton cruelty; it was rather the wanton recklessness which belongs to a wild boy accustomed to gratify the impulse of the moment--the recklessness which is not cruelty in the boy, but which prosperity may pamper into cruelty in the man.

And scarce had he reloaded his gun before the neigh of a young colt came from the neighbouring paddock, and Philip bounded to the fence.

"He calls me, poor fellow; you shall see him feed from my hand.

Run in for a piece of bread--a large piece, Sidney." The boy and the animal seemed to understand each other.

"I see you don't like horses," he said to Arthur.
"As for me, I love dogs, horses--every dumb creature." "Except swallows." said Arthur, with a half smile, and a little surprised at the inconsistency of the boast.
"Oh! that is short,--all fair: it is not to hurt the swallow--it is to obtain skill," said Philip, colouring; and then, as if not quite easy with his own definition, he turned away abruptly.
"This is dull work--suppose we fish.