Night had set in. St. John’s companions had departed to their several haunts, and Percival himself stood on the steps of the club, resolving that he would join the crowds that swept through the streets to gaze on the illuminations, when he perceived Beck (still at the rein of his dozing horse), whom he had quite forgotten till that moment. Laughing at his own want of memory, Percival put some silver into Beck’s hand,—more silver than Beck had ever before received for similar service,—and said,—
“Well, my man, I suppose I can trust you to take my horse to his stables,—No.——, the Mews, behind Curzon Street. Poor fellow, he wants his supper,—and you, too, I suppose!”
Beck smiled a pale, hungry smile, and pulled his forelock politely.
“I can take the ‘oss werry safely, your ‘onor.”
“Take him, then, and good evening; but don’t get on, for your life.”
“Oh, no, sir; I never gets on,—‘t aint in my ways.”
And Beck slowly led the horse through the crowd, till he vanished from Percival’s eyes.
Just then a man passing through the street paused as he saw the young gentleman on the steps of the club, and said gayly, “Ah! how do you do? Pretty faces in plenty out to-night. Which way are you going?”
“That is more than I can tell you, Mr. Varney. I was just thinking which turn to take,—the right or the left.”
“Then let me be your guide;” and Varney offered his arm.