The Invitation—the Outfit—and the sallying forth.

TO Mr. AUGUSTUS SPRIGGS,

AT Mr. WILLIAMS'S, GROCER, ADDLE STREET.

(Tower Street, 31st August, 18__)

My dear Chum,

Dobbs has give me a whole holiday, and it's my intention to take the field to-morrow—and if so be you can come over your governor, and cut the apron and sleeves for a day—why

“Together we will range the fields;”

and if we don't have some prime sport, my name's not Dick, that's all.

I've bought powder and shot, and my cousin which is Shopman to my Uncle at the corner, have lent me a couple of guns that has been 'popp'd.' Don't mind the expense, for I've shot enough for both. Let me know by Jim if you can cut your stick as early as nine, as I mean to have a lift by the Highgate what starts from the Bank.

Mind, I won't take no refusal—so pitch it strong to the old 'un, and carry your resolution nem. con.

And believe me to be, your old Crony,

RICHARD GRUBB.

P. S. The guns hasn't got them thingummy 'caps,' but that's no matter, for cousin says them cocks won't always fight: while them as he has lent is reg'lar good—and never misses fire nor fires amiss.

In reply to this elegant epistle, Mr. Richard Grubb was favoured with a line from Mr. Augustus Spriggs, expressive of his unbounded delight in having prevailed upon his governor to 'let him out;' and concluding with a promise of meeting the coach at Moorgate.

At the appointed hour, Mr. Richard Grubb, 'armed at all points,' mounted the stage—his hat cocked knowingly over his right eye—his gun half-cocked and slung over his shoulder, and a real penny Cuba in his mouth.

“A fine mornin' for sport,” remarked Mr. Richard Grubb to his fellow-passenger, a stout gentleman between fifty and sixty years of age, with a choleric physiognomy and a fierce-looking pigtail.

“I dessay—”

“Do you hang out at Highgate?” continued the sportsman.

“Hang out?”

“Ay, are you a hinhabitant?”

“To be sure I am.”

“Is there any birds thereabouts?”

“Plenty o' geese,” sharply replied the old gentleman.

“Ha! ha! werry good!—but I means game;—partridges and them sort o' birds.”

“I never see any except what I've brought down.”

“I on'y vish I may bring down all I see, that's all,” chuckled the joyous Mr. Grubb.

“What's the matter?”

“I don't at all like that 'ere gun.”

“Lor! bless you, how timorsome you are, 'tain't loaded.”

“Loaded or not loaded, it's werry unpleasant to ride with that gun o' yours looking into one's ear so.”

“Vell, don't be afeard, I'll twist it over t'other shoulder,—there! but a gun ain't a coach, you know, vich goes off whether it's loaded or not. Hollo! Spriggs! here you are, my boy, lord! how you are figg'd out—didn't know you—jump up!”

“Vere's my instrument o' destruction?” enquired the lively Augustus, when he had succeeded in mounting to his seat.

“Stow'd him in the boot!”

The coachman mounted and drove off; the sportsmen chatting and laughing as they passed through 'merry Islington.'

“Von't ve keep the game alive!” exclaimed Spriggs, slapping his friend upon the back.

“I dessay you will,” remarked the caustic old boy with the pigtail; “for it's little you'll kill, young gentlemen, and that's my belief!”

“On'y let's put 'em up, and see if we don't knock 'em down, as cleverly as Mister Robins does his lots,” replied Spriggs, laughing at his own wit.

Arrived at Highgate, the old gentleman, with a step-fatherly anxiety, bade them take care of the 'spring-guns' in their perambulations.

“Thankee, old boy,” said Spriggs, “but we ain't so green as not to know that spring guns, like spring radishes, go off long afore Autumn, you know!”