“I spent the evening, sir, at the Vauxhall Gardens.”
“No doubt you would,” interpolated his uncle.
“My Lord Barrymore was there. He was attended by one who was dressed as a clergyman, but who was, as I am told, none other than Hooper the Tinman, who acts as his bully and thrashes all who may offend him. Together they passed down the central path, insulting the women and browbeating the men. They actually hustled me. I was offended, sir—so much so that I nearly took the matter in hand then and there.”
“It is as well that you did not. The prizefighter would have beaten you.”
“Perhaps so, sir—and also, perhaps not.”
“Ah, you add pugilism to your elegant accomplishments?”
The young man laughed pleasantly.
“William Ball is the only professor of my Alma Mater who has ever had occasion to compliment me, sir. He is better known as the Oxford Pet. I think, with all modesty, that I could hold him for a dozen rounds. But last night I suffered the annoyance without protest, for since it is said that the same scene is enacted every evening, there is always time to act.”
“And how would you act, may I ask?”
“That, sir, I should prefer to keep to myself; but my aim, as I say, would be to make Lord Barrymore a laughing-stock to all London.”