"I haven't brought anything for shooting at all. Somehow I
got the idea we were going to do rough riding instead--and
so I fetched along some old Mexican riding-clothes that make
me feel more at home in the saddle than anything else would.
You know how fond a man gets of old, loose things like that.
But about this shooting--I want you to fix me out.
What do I need? Just some breeches and leggings, eh? You
can manage them for me, can't you?"
Pangbourn could and did--and it was upon his advice that the
Mexican jacket was utilized to complete the out-fit. Its
shape was beyond doubt uncommon, but it had big pockets,
and it looked like business. Thorpe, as he glanced up
and down his image in the tall mirror of the wardrobe,
felt that he must kill a large number of birds to justify
the effect of pitiless proficiency which this jacket lent
to his appearance.
"We will find a cap below, sir," Pangbourn announced,
with serenity, and Thorpe, who had been tentatively
fingering the big, flaring sombrero, thrust it back upon
its peg as if it had proved too hot to handle.
Downstairs in the hall there was more waiting to be done,
and there was nobody now to bear him company. He lit
another cigar, tried on various caps till he found a leathern
one to suit him, and then dawdled about the room and the
adjoining conservatory for what seemed to him more than half
an hour.
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