“It is not his fault, I promise you, that you should be left in the lurch. As to me, I had my orders to take his place from the only man upon earth whose word I have never disobeyed.”
“Yes, Sir Charles,” said Mrs. Harrison, who had left the gig and approached us. “You can make the most of it this time, for never again shall you have my Jack—not if you were to go on your knees for him.”
“She’s not a patron of sport, and that’s a fact,” said the smith.
“Sport!” she cried, with shrill contempt and anger. “Tell me when all is over.”
She hurried away, and I saw her afterwards seated amongst the bracken, her back turned towards the multitude, and her hands over her ears, cowering and wincing in an agony of apprehension.
Whilst this hurried scene had been taking place, the crowd had become more and more tumultuous, partly from their impatience at the delay, and partly from their exuberant spirits at the unexpected chance of seeing so celebrated a fighting man as Harrison. His identity had already been noised abroad, and many an elderly connoisseur plucked his long net-purse out of his fob, in order to put a few guineas upon the man who would represent the school of the past against the present. The younger men were still in favour of the west-countryman, and small odds were to be had either way in proportion to the number of the supporters of each in the different parts of the crowd.
In the mean time Sir Lothian Hume had come bustling up to the Honourable Berkeley Craven, who was still standing near our curricle.
“I beg to lodge a formal protest against these proceedings,” said he.
“On what grounds, sir?”
“Because the man produced is not the original nominee of Sir Charles Tregellis.”