He would start from his sleep at night, and go to Sidney’s bed to see that he was there. He left him in the morning with forebodings—he returned in the dark with fear. Meanwhile the character of this young man, so sweet and tender to Sidney, was gradually becoming more hard and stern to others. He had now climbed to the post of command in that rude establishment; and premature command in any sphere tends to make men unsocial and imperious.
One day Mr. Stubmore called him into his own countinghouse, where stood a gentleman, with one hand in his coatpocket, the other tapping his whip against his boot.
“Philips, show this gentleman the brown mare. She is a beauty in harness, is she not? This gentleman wants a match for his pheaton.”
“She must step very hoigh,” said the gentleman, turning round: and Philip recognised the beau in the stage-coach. The recognition was simultaneous. The beau nodded, then whistled, and winked.
“Come, my man, I am at your service,” said he.
Philip, with many misgivings, followed him across the yard. The gentleman then beckoned him to approach.
“You, sir,—moind, I never peach—setting up here in the honest line? Dull work, honesty,—eh?”
“Sir, I really don’t know you.”
“Daun’t you recollect old Greggs, the evening you came there with jolly Bill Gawtrey? Recollect that, eh?” Philip was mute.
“I was among the gentlemen in the back parlour who shook you by the hand. Bill’s off to France, then. I am tauking the provinces. I want a good horse—the best in the yard, moind! Cutting such a swell here! My name is Captain de Burgh Smith—never moind yours, my fine faellow. Now, then, out with your rattlers, and keep your tongue in your mouth.”