"I'm sorry you were disappointed," said he.
"Is it about the 'oss you mean, sir?" inquired the shabby man, touching his hat.
"Yes."
"Why, it do come a bit 'ard-like to ha' lost 'im, sir, arter waiting my chance so long. But fifty guineas be a sight o' money to a chap as be out of a job, though 'e's dirt-cheap at the price. There ain't many 'osses like 'im, sir."
"That was why I should have bought him at ten times the price," said Barnabas.
The man took off his hat, ran his stubby fingers through his grizzled hair, and stared hard at Barnabas.
"Sir," said he, "even at that you couldn't ha' done wrong. He ain't a kind 'oss--never 'aving been understood, d' ye see; but take my word for it, 'e's a wonder, that 'oss!"
"You know him, perhaps?"
"Since 'e were foaled, sir. I was stud-groom; but folks think I'm too old for the job, d' ye see, sir?"
"Do you think he 'd remember you?"
"Ay, that 'e would!"
"Do you suppose--look at him!--do you suppose you could hold him quieter than those ostlers?"
"'Old 'im, sir!" exclaimed the man, throwing back his shoulders. "'Old 'im--ah, that I could! Try me!"
"I will," said Barnabas. "How would forty shillings a week suit you?"
"Sir?" exclaimed the old groom, staring.
"Since you need a job, and I need a groom, I'll have you--if you're willing."
The man's square jaw relaxed, his eyes glistened; then all at once he shook his head and sighed.
"Ah! sir," said he, "ah! young sir, my 'air's gray, an' I'm not so spry as I was--nobody wants a man as old as I be, and, seeing as you've got the 'oss, you ain't got no call to make game o' me, young sir. You 've got--the 'oss!"
Now at this particular moment Captain Slingsby took it into his head to interrupt them, which he did in characteristic fashion.
"Hallo!--hi there!" he shouted, flourishing his whip.
"But I'm not making game of you," said Barnabas, utterly unconscious of the Captain, at least his glance never wavered from the eager face of the old groom.
"Hallo, there!" roared the Captain, louder than ever.
"And to prove it," Barnabas continued, "here is a guinea in advance," and he slipped the coin into the old groom's lax hand.
"Oh, b'gad," cried the Captain, hoarsely, "don't you hear me, you over there? Hi! you in the neckcloth!"
"Sir," said Barnabas, turning sharply and frowning again at the repetition of the word, "if you are pleased to allude to me, I would humbly inform you that my name is Beverley."
"Oh!" exclaimed the Captain, "I see--young Beverley, son of old Beverley--and a devilish good name too!"
"Sir, I'm vastly relieved to hear you say so," retorted Barnabas, with a profound obeisance. Then taking out his purse, he beckoned his new groom to approach.
"What is your name?" he inquired, as he counted out a certain sum.
"Gabriel Martin, sir."
"Then, Martin, pray give the fellow his money."
"Sir?"
"I mean the red-faced man in the dirty jacket, Martin," added Barnabas.
The old groom hesitated, glanced from the Captain's scowling brow to the smiling lips of Barnabas.
"Very good, sir," said he, touching his shabby hat, and taking the money Barnabas held out, he tendered it to the Captain, who, redder of face than ever, took it, stared from it to Barnabas, and whistled.
"Now, damme!" he exclaimed, "damme, if I don't believe the fellow means to be offensive!"
"If so, sir, the desire would seem to be mutual!" returned Barnabas.
"Yes, b'gad! I really believe he means to be offensive!" repeated the Captain, nodding as he pocketed the money.
"Of that you are the best judge, sir," Barnabas retorted. Captain Slingsby whistled again, frowned, and tossing aside his whip, proceeded to button up his coat.
"Why then," said he, "we must trouble this offensive person to apologize or--or put 'em up, begad!"
But hereupon the young Corinthian (who had been watching them languidly through the glass he carried at the end of a broad ribbon) stepped forward, though languidly, and laid a white and languid hand upon the Captain's arm.
"No, no, Sling," said he in a die-away voice, "he's a doocid fine 'bit of stuff'--look at those shoulders! and quick on his pins--remark those legs! No, no, my dear fellow, remember your knee, you hurt it, you know--fell on it when you were thrown,--must be doocid painful! Must let me take your place. Shall insist! Pleasure's all mine, 'sure you."
"Never, Jerningham!" fumed the Captain, "not to be thought of, my dear Bob--no begad, he's mine; why you heard him, he--he positively called me a--a fellow!"
"So you are, Sling," murmured the Corinthian, surveying Barnabas with an approving eye, "dev'lish dashing fellow, an 'out-and-outer' with the 'ribbons'--fiddle it with any one, by George, but no good with your mauleys, damme if you are! Besides, there's your knee, you know--don't forget your knee--"
"Curse my knee!"
"Certainly, dear fellow, but--"
"My knee's sound enough to teach this countryman manners, b'gad; you heard him say my coat was filthy?"
"So it is, Sling, my boy, devilish dirty! So are your knees--look at 'em! But if you will dismount head over heels into a muck-heap, my dear fellow, what the dooce can you expect?" The Captain merely swore.
"Doocid annoying, of course," his friend continued, "I mean your knee, you know, you can hardly walk, and this country fellow looks a regular, bang up milling cove. Let me have a try at him, do now. Have a little thought for others, and don't be so infernally selfish, Sling, my boy."
As he spoke, the Corinthian took off his hat, which he forced into the Captain's unwilling grasp, drew off his very tight-fitting coat, which he tossed over the Captain's unwilling arm, and, rolling back his snowy shirt-sleeves, turned to Barnabas with shining eyes and smiling lips.
"Sir," said he, "seeing my friend's knee is not quite all it should be, perhaps you will permit me to take his place, pleasure's entirely mine, 'sure you. Shall we have it here, or would you prefer the stables--more comfortable, perhaps--stables?"
Now while Barnabas hesitated, somewhat taken aback by this unlooked-for turn of events, as luck would have it, there came a diversion. A high, yellow-wheeled curricle swung suddenly into the yard, and its two foam-spattered bays were pulled up in masterly fashion, but within a yard of the great, black horse, which immediately began to rear and plunge again; whereupon the bays began to snort, and dance, and tremble (like the thoroughbreds they were), and all was uproar and confusion; in the midst of which, down from the rumble of the dusty curricle dropped a dusty and remarkably diminutive groom, who, running to the leader's head,