Mr. Pollitt looked blank. He rather liked buying ponies from lords, even at a high figure, but a hundred guineas too much was a stiff sum. He knew that he could rely on the young fellow’s opinion, for lazy as he seemed, lounging there in an easy chair, he could both buy a horse and ride a horse—which does not always follow. The languid-looking youth was a hard rider to hounds, and a finished polo player.
“Then I suppose we shan’t mind the brown, eh, Mark?” said his uncle rather dolefully. “After all, it is getting late in the season, and his lordship has another offer.”
“Has he!” expressively. “Oh, then, that is all right.”
“Your side played up well to-day, my boy!”
“And were well beaten—two goals to four. Johnny Brind is no good as a back. He sits doubled up in his saddle, like an angry cat, and lets the ball roll out between his pony’s fore legs—and his language!”
“That did not come as far as my ears. I saw you speaking to Lord Robert Tedcastle. You were at Eton with him—you might bring him home to lunch some Sunday; and that Italian prince, did you come across him?” anxiously.
“No; I did not see him.”
“I noticed you having a long talk with that young Torrens; what was he yarning about? He was nodding his head and waving his hands like a cheap toy.”
“He was telling me of his plans. He and his brother are off to America next week, they are going on to Japan, Australia, and India. I say, Uncle Dan,” suddenly sitting erect, “I wish you would let me travel for a couple of years and see the world.”
A silence of nearly a minute, and then Mr. Pollitt burst out—