There exists a certain
class of sportsmen who always appear to have just walked out of a
sporting tailor's shop, and to this class Edward Cossey belonged.
Everything about him was of the best and newest and most expensive
kind possible; even his guns were just down from a famous maker, and
the best that could be had for love or money, having cost exactly a
hundred and forty guineas the pair. Indeed, he presented a curious
contrast to his rival. The Colonel had certainly nothing new-looking
about /him/; an old tweed coat, an old hat, with a piece of gut still
twined round it, a sadly frayed bag full of brown cartridges, and,
last of all, an old gun with the brown worn off the barrels, original
cost, 17 pounds 10s. And yet there was no possibility of making any
mistake as to which of the two looked more of a gentleman, or, indeed,
more of a sportsman.
Edward Cossey shook hands with Ida, but when the Colonel was advancing
to give him his hand, he turned and spoke to the Squire, who had at
length finished his letter, so that no greeting was passed between
them. At the time Harold did not know if this move was or was not
accidental.
Presently they started, Edward Cossey attended by his man with the
second gun.
"Hullo! Cossey," sang out the Squire after him, "it isn't any use
bringing your two guns for this sort of work.
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