O crikey, but it's 'ot;
'owever, I must 'urry on, for grinstuns is grinstuns, and a gal, with a
rich hold huncle, ridin' a fine 'orse, with a nigger behind 'im carryin'
his portmantle, haint to be sneezed hat. Stre'ch your pegs, Mr. Rawdon,
workin' geologist hand minerologist!"
"By Jove!" cried Coristine, when the Grinstun man was out of sight;
"that cad has met the colonel, and has been talking to him."
"A fine nephew-in-law he will get in him!" growled Wilkinson; "I have
half a mind--excuse me Corry."
"I thought you were very much taken with the old Southerner."
"Yes, that is it," and the dominie relapsed into silence.
"It's about lunch time, Wilks, and, as there's sure to be no water on
the top of the hill, I'll fill my rubber bag at the spring down there,
and carry it up, so that we can enjoy the view while taking our
prandial."
Wilkinson vouchsafed no reply. He was in deep and earnest thought about
something. Taking silence for consent, Coristine tripped down the hill a
few yards, with a square india rubber article in his hand. It had a
brass mouthpiece that partly screwed off, when it was desirable to
inflate it with air, as a cushion, pillow, or life-preserver, or to fill
it with hot water to take the place of a warming-pan.
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