“Well,” said Conway, quietly, “it's not a very pleasant thing to be crippled in this fashion; but I 'd rather lose the other arm than do what you speak of. And if I did n't know that many gentlemen get a loose way of talking of fifty things they 'd never seriously think of doing, I 'd rather feel disposed to be offended at what you have just said.”
“Offended! of course not,—I never dreamed of anything offensive. I only meant to say that they call me a flat; but hang me if I'd have let them off as cheaply as you did.”
“Then they're at perfect liberty to call me a flat also,” said Conway, laughing. “Indeed, I suspect I have given them ample reason to think me one.”
The look of compassionate pity Beecher bestowed on him as he uttered these words was as honest as anything in his nature could be.
It was in vain Bella tried to get back the conversation to the events of the campaign, to the scenes wherein poor Jack was an actor. Beecher's perverse activity held them chained to incidents which, to him, embraced all that was worth living for. “You must have had some capital things in your time, though. You had some race-horses, and were well in with Tom Nolan's set,” said he to Conway.
“Shall I tell you the best match I ever had,—at least, the one gave me most pleasure?”
“Do, by all means,” said Beecher, eagerly, “though I guess it already. It was against Vickersley, even for ten thousand, at York.”
“No,” said the other, smiling.
“Well, then, it was the Cotswold,—four miles in two heats. You won it with a sister to Ladybird.”
“Nor that, either; though by these reminiscences you show me how accurately you have followed my humble fortunes.”