“Well, Baby, don’t be cross; I only meant this arrangement really for your sake. I needn’t tell you how very much I’d prefer doing the honors of my poor house in person.”
“Oh, I see what you mean,—more propers. Well, well, I’ve a great deal to learn; but look, I think its growing lighter.”
“No, far from it; it’s only that gray mass along the horizon that always bodes continual rain.”
As the prospect without had little cheering to look upon, we sat down beside the fire and chatted away, forgetting very soon in a hundred mutual recollections and inquiries, the rain and the wind, the thunder and the hurricane. Now and then, as some louder crash would resound above our heads, for a moment we would turn to the window, and comment upon the dreadful weather; but the next, we had forgotten all about it, and were deep in our confabulations.
As for my fair cousin, who at first was full of contrivances to pass the time,—such as the piano, a game at backgammon, chicken hazard, battledoor,—she at last became mightily interested in some of my soldiering adventures, and it was six o’clock ere we again thought that some final measure must be adopted for restoring Baby to her friends, or at least, guarding against the consequences her simple and guileless nature might have involved her in.
Mike was called into the conference, and at his suggestion, it was decided that we should have out the phaeton, and that I should myself drive Miss Blake home; a plan which offered no other difficulties than this one,—namely, that of above thirty horses in my stables, I had not a single pair which had ever been harnessed.
This, so far from proving the obstacle I deemed it, seemed, on the contrary, to overwhelm Baby with delight.
“Let’s have them. Come, Charley, this will be rare fun; we couldn’t have a team of four, could we?”
“Six, if you like it, my dear coz—only who’s to hold them? They’re young thorough-breds,—most of them never backed; some not bitted. In fact, I know nothing of my stable. I say, Mike, is there anything fit to take out?”
“Yes, sir; there’s Miss Wildespin, she’s in training, to be sure; but we can’t help that; and the brown colt they call, ‘Billy the Bolter,’—they’re the likeliest we have; without your honor would take the two chestnuts we took up last week; they’re raal devils to go; and if the tackle will hold them, they’ll bring you to Mr. Blake’s door in forty minutes.”