“You are going through, sir?” said the coachman.
“Yes, William,” I said, condescendingly (I knew him); “I am going to London. I shall go down into Suffolk afterwards.”
“Shooting, sir?” said the coachman.
He knew as well as I did that it was just as likely, at that time of year, I was going down there whaling; but I felt complimented, too.
“I don’t know,” I said, pretending to be undecided, “whether I shall take a shot or not.”
“Birds is got wery shy, I’m told,” said William.
“So I understand,” said I.
“Is Suffolk your county, sir?” asked William.
“Yes,” I said, with some importance. “Suffolk’s my county.”
“I’m told the dumplings is uncommon fine down there,” said William.
I was not aware of it myself, but I felt it necessary to uphold the institutions of my county, and to evince a familiarity with them; so I shook my head, as much as to say, “I believe you!”
“And the Punches,” said William. “There’s cattle! A Suffolk Punch, when he’s a good ’un, is worth his weight in gold. Did you ever breed any Suffolk Punches yourself, sir?”
“N-no,” I said, “not exactly.”