y?--which is best?"

"Oh! I'll be Judge and Jury,"--answered Archer--"and you shall plead
before me; and I'll make up my mind in the meantime!"

"He's for me, any how,"--shouted Tom--"Darn it all, Harry, you knows you
wouldn't own a pinter--no, not if it was gin you!"

"I believe you are about right there, old fellow, so far as this country
goes at least!"--said Archer--"different dogs for different soils and
seasons--and, in my judgment, setters are far the best this side the
Atlantic--but it is late now, and I can't stand chattering here--good
night--you shall have as much dog-talk as you like to-morrow."

THE OUTLYING STAG

It was still pitch dark, although the skies were quite clear and
cloudless, when Harry, Frank, and the Commodore re-assembled on the
following morning, in Tom's best parlor, preparatory to the stag hunt
which, as determined on the previous night, was to be their first
sporting move in the valley.

Early, however, as it was, Timothy had contrived to make a glorious fire
upon the hearth, and to lay out a slight breakfast of biscuits, butter,
and cold beef, flanked by a square case-bottle of Jamaica, and a huge
jorum of boiled milk. Tom Draw had not yet made his appearance, but the
sound of his ponderous tramp, mixed with strange oaths and loud
vociferations, showed that he was on foot, and ready for the field.

"I'll tell you what, Master A---," said Archer as he stood with his back
to the fire, mixing some rum with sugar and cold water, previous to
pouring the hot milk into it--"You'll be so cold in that light jacket on
the stand this morning, that you'll never be able to hold your gun true,
if you get a shot. It froze quite hard last night, and there's some
wind, too, this morning."

"That's very true," replied the Commodore, "but devil a thing have I got
else to wear, unless I put on my great coat, and that's too much the
other way--too big and clumsy altogether. I shall do well enough, I dare
say; and after all, my drilling jacket is not much thinner than your
fustian."

"No," said Harry, "but you don't fancy that I'm going out in this, do
you? No! no! I'm too old a hand for that sort of thing--I know that to
shoot well, a man must be comfortable, and I mean to be so. Why, man, I
shall put on my Canadian hunting shirt over this,"--and with the word he
slipped a loose frock, shaped much like a wagoner's smock, or a Flemish
blouse, over his head, with large full sleeves, reaching almos