Second String
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Оглавление
Hope Anthony. Second String
Chapter I. HOME AGAIN
Chapter II. A VERY LITTLE HUNTING
Chapter III. THE POTENT VOICE
Chapter IV. SETTLED PROGRAMMES
Chapter V. BROADENING LIFE
Chapter VI. THE WORLDS OF MERITON
Chapter VII. ENTERING FOR THE RACE
Chapter VIII. WONDERFUL WORDS
Chapter IX "INTERJECTION."
Chapter X. FRIENDS IN NEED
Chapter XI. THE SHAWL BY THE WINDOW
Chapter XII. CONCERNING A STOLEN KISS
Chapter XIII. A LOVER LOOKS PALE
Chapter XIV. SAVING THE NATION
Chapter XV. LOVE AND FEAR
Chapter XVI. A CHOICE OF EVILS
Chapter XVII. REFORMATION
Chapter XVIII. PENITENCE AND PROBLEMS
Chapter XIX. MARKED MONEY
Chapter XX. NO GOOD?
Chapter XXI. THE EMPTY PLACE
Chapter XXII. GRUBBING AWAY
Chapter XXIII. A STOP-GAP
Chapter XXIV. PRETTY MUCH THE SAME!
Chapter XXV. THE LAST FIGHT
Chapter XXVI. TALES OUT OF SCHOOL FOR ONCE
Chapter XXVII. NOT OF HIS SEEKING
Отрывок из книги
If more were needed to make a man feel at home – more than old Meriton itself, Jack Rock with his beef, and the clasp of Harry Belfield's hand – the meet of the hounds supplied it. There were hunts in other lands; Andy could not persuade himself that there were meets like this, so entirely English it seemed in the manner of it. Everybody was there, high and low, rich and poor, young and old. An incredible coincidence of unplausible accidents had caused an extraordinary number of people to have occasion to pass by Fyfold Green that morning at that hour, let alone all the folk who chanced to have a "morning off" and proposed to see some of the run, on horseback or on foot. The tradesmen's carts were there in a cluster, among them two of Jack Rock's: his boys knew that a blind eye would be turned to half an hour's lateness in the delivery of the customers' joints. For centre of the scene were the waving tails, the glossy impatient horses, the red coats, the Master himself, Lord Meriton, in his glory and, it may be added, in the peremptory mood which is traditionally associated with his office.
It was a good hunting morning, cloudy and cool, with the wind veering to the north-east and dropping as it veered. No frost yet, but the weather-wise predicted one before long. The scent should be good – a bit too good, Andy reflected, for riders on shanks' mare. Their turn is best served by a scent somewhat variable and elusive. A check here and there, a fresh cast, the hounds feeling for the scent – these things, added to a cunning use of short cuts and a knowledge of the country shared by the fox, aid them to keep on terms and see something of the run – just as they aid the heavy old gentlemen on big horses and the small boys on fat ponies to get their humble share of the sport.
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Vivien turned her head towards the stables with a quick apprehensive jerk. A big black retriever, released in obedience to Isobel Vintry's order, ran out, bounding joyously. He leapt up at Isobel, pawing her and barking in an ecstasy of delight. In passing Andy, the stranger, he gave him another bark of greeting and a hasty pawing; then he clumsily gambolled on to where Vivien stood.
"He won't hurt you, Vivien. You know he won't hurt you, don't you?" The dog certainly seemed to warrant Isobel's assertion; he appeared a most good-natured animal, though his play was rough.
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