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what a kind-hearted chap he was. He told me to go
and order Jack's carriage. I went to the kitchen, and
informed them in subdued tones that Mr. Peppermore
was very drunk. The coachman grinned and went
out to put his horse in.

I then became aware that I was very drunk myself,
and soon afterwards Denis gently assisted me up the
steep stairs to my room. I was glad, next morning,
that I hadn't got to go out hunting. This was the first
occasion on which I was authentically intoxicated.


To GIVE a detailed account of my doings during
that winter would be to deviate from my design.
It may be inferred, however, that I enjoyed myself
wholeheartedly and lived in total immunity from all
intellectual effort (a fact which may seem rather re-
markable to those who recognize a modicum of mental
ability in the writing of these memoirs). For more
than six months I perused nothing except news-
papers; my pen was employed only in a weekly
scribble to Aunt Evelyn, and in copying out hound
pedigrees for Denis, who had discovered that the
Packlestone pedigree books had not been kept with
quite that precision which was proper for such essen-
tial registers. In this manner I acquired an exact
knowledge of the ancestries of Vivian, Villager, Con-
quest, Cottager, and various other eloquent veterans
whose music had made the ploughman pause with
attentive ear on many a copse-crowned upland.

Odd enough it seems now, that detached and
limited segment of my human experience, when I was
so completely identified with what I was doing and