“I liked the old fellow, too,” said Beecher. “He was a bit of a bore, to be sure, about Arayo Molinos, and Albuera, and Soult, and Beresford, and the rest of 'em; but he was a rare good one to help a fellow at a pinch, and hospitable as a prince.”
“That I 'm sure of!” chimed in Conway.
“I know it, I can swear to it; I used to dine with him every Sunday, regularly as the day came. I'll never forget those little tough legs of mutton,—wherever he found them there's no saying,—and those hard pellets of capers, like big swan-shot, washed down with table beer and whiskey-grog, and poor Kellett thinking all the while he was giving you haunch of venison and red hermitage.”
“He 'd have given them just as freely if he had them,” broke in Conway, half gruffly.
“That he would! He did so when he had it to give,—at least, so they tell me, for I never saw the old place at Kellett's Town, or Castle Kellett—”
“Kellett's Court was the name.”
“Ay, to be sure, Kellett's Court. I wonder how I could forget it, for I'm sure I heard it often enough.”
“One forgets many a thing they ought to remember,” said Conway, significantly.
“Hit him again, he hasn't got no friends!” broke in Beecher, laughing jovially at this rebuke of himself. “You mean, that I ought to have a fresher memory about all old Paul's kindnesses, and you 're right there; but if you knew how hard the world has hit me, how hot they 've been giving it to me these years back, you 'd perhaps not lean so heavily on me. Since the Epsom of '42,” said he, solemnly, “I never had one chance, not one, I pledge you my sacred word of honor. I 've had my little 'innings,' you know, like every one else,—punted for five-pun-notes with the small ones, but never a real chance. Now, I call that hard, deuced hard.”
“I suppose it is hard,” said Conway; but, really, it would have been very difficult to say in what sense his words should be taken.