Book Two, Chapter One

Mr. Snout, a redcoat and hogman, reclined in his modest officer’s cot, recovering from having exploded a pianoforte at the Netherfield ball. At the physician’s urgence, he kept his shattered leg elevated atop a stack of unread New Yorkers, which he would occasionally peruse for cartoons or–in moments of great distress–fiction. This forced medical isolation from society whetted Mr. Snout’s appetite for town and all its intrigues, about which his fellow militiamen were happy to inform.

Showcasing their blokeish camaraderie by sitting widely on untraditional surfaces, Mr. Denny, Mr. Scot, and Mr. Wickham tossed an apple back and forth as they spread the gossip o’ the realm.

Mr. Denny, cavalier, took a manly bite of fruit.

“You’re not missing much, Snout. The hunting’s all gone for shit! Sure, Bingley let loose a few dozen goose before leaving Netherfield, but we shot all them down real quick, we did.”

Mr. Scot snatched the apple mid-air and snapped at its skin side.

“And that’s not all. There ain't no girls. Ever since the Netherfield Balls dried up we ain’t seen no girls at all, ‘cept of course the two youngest Bennets.”

“They’re still putting on a show drowning salamanders in front of the church?” asked Mr. Snout.

“E’ry day.” replied Scot.

“Those Bennets–” Mr. Wickham chuckled to himself as he caught the apple in his massive hands, “now they are lively. Particular, of course, but so are most girls. That Mary Elizabeth intrigues me, though she wasted the last week lamenting both her stolen Vicar and Mary Jane’s broken heart.”

“How do you know all that?” inquired Mr. Snout, sniffing more juice in Wickham’s anecdote.

Wickham popped the ravaged apple core into his massive mouth.

“Boys, I’ve been lunching at Longbourn.”