“There's Anchovy Paste—”
“Broke down before and behind.”
“Hop the Twig, own sister to Levanter; ran second for the Colchester Cup—”
“Mares don't answer abroad.”
“Well, what do you say to Mumps?”
“There's the horse for the Continent. A great heavy-headed, thick-jawed beast, with lazy action, and capped hocks. He's the animal to walk into a foreign jockey club. Oh, if we had him!”
“I know where he is!” exclaimed Beecher, in ecstasy. “There 's a Brummagem fellow driving him through Wales,—a bagman,—and he takes him a turn now and then for the county stakes that offer. I 'll lay my head on't we get him for fifty pounds.”
“Come, old fellow,” said Grog, encouragingly, “you have your wits about you, after all. Breakfast here to-morrow, about twelve o'clock, and we 'll see if we can't arrange the whole affair. It's a sure five hundred apiece, as if we had it here;” and he slapped his pockets as he spoke.
Beecher shook his friend's hand with a warmth that showed all his wonted cordiality, and with a hearty “Good-night!” they separated.
Grog had managed cleverly. He had done something by terror, and the rest he had accomplished by temptation. They were the two only impulses to sway that strange temperament.