This is Grimsby's scrawl--only three lines, the sulky dog! He doesn't say much, to be sure, but his very silence implies more than all the others' words, and the less he says, the more he thinks--and this is Hargrave's missive.
He is particularly grieved at me, because, forsooth he had fallen in love with you from his sister's reports, and meant to have married you himself, as soon as he had sown his wild oats.' 'I'm vastly obliged to him,' observed I.
'And so am I,' said he.

'And look at this.

This is Hattersley's--every page stuffed full of railing accusations, bitter curses, and lamentable complaints, ending up with swearing that he'll get married himself in revenge: he'll throw himself away on the first old maid that chooses to set her cap at him,--as if I cared what he did with himself.' 'Well,' said I, 'if you do give up your intimacy with these men, I don't think you will have much cause to regret the loss of their society; for it's my belief they never did you much good.' 'Maybe not; but we'd a merry time of it, too, though mingled with sorrow and pain, as Lowborough knows to his cost--Ha, ha!' and while he was laughing at the recollection of Lowborough's troubles, my uncle came and slapped him on the shoulder.
'Come, my lad!' said he.

'Are you too busy making love to my niece to make war with the pheasants ?--First of October, remember! Sun shines out--rain ceased--even Boarham's not afraid to venture in his waterproof boots; and Wilmot and I are going to beat you all.

I declare, we old 'uns are the keenest sportsmen of the lot!' 'I'll show you what I can do to-day, however,' said my companion.