The Squire crumpled up the letter in his hand.

"Put the bag away," he said to the handsome gentleman. "'Tis Sunday,
I tell 'ee, and Parson will be here in an hour. This is young
six-foot I was telling about." He turned to Taffy--

"Boy, go and shake hands with Sir Harry Vyell."

Taffy did as he was bidden. "This is my son George," said Sir Harry;
and Taffy shook hands with him, too, and liked his face.

"Put the bag away, Harry," said the Squire.

"Just to comfort 'ee, now!"

"I tell 'ee I won't look at en."

Sir Harry untied the neck of the bag, and drew out a smaller one;
untied this, and out strutted a game-cock.

The old Squire eyed it. "H'm, he don't seem flourishing."

"Don't abuse a bird that's come twelve miles in a bag on purpose to
cheer you up. He's a match for anything you can bring."

"Tuts, man, he's dull--no colour nor condition. Get along with 'ee;
I wouldn' ask a bird of mine to break the Sabbath for a wastrel like
that."

Sir Harry drew out a shagreen-covered case and opened it. Within, on