“The best security against my doing so accidentally is that I may be hundreds of miles away before your races come off.”
For a minute or two Beecher's misery was extreme. He saw how his rashness had carried him away to a foolish act of good-nature, and had not even reaped thanks for his generosity. What would he not have given to recall his words?—what would he not have done to obliterate their impression? At last a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he said,—
“There are two of us in 'the lay,' and my 'pal' is the readiest pistol in Europe.”
“I 'll not provoke any display of his skill, depend on 't,” said Conway, controlling, as well as he could, the inclination to laugh out.
“He'd tumble you over like winking if you sold him. He 'd make it as short work with myself if he suspected me.”
“I'd rather have a quieter sort of colleague,” said Conway, dryly.
“Oh! but he's a rare one to 'work the oracle.' Solomon was a wise man—”
“What infernal balderdash are you at with Solomon and Samson, there?” shouted out Grog Davis, who had just been looking after the horse-box in the bow. “Come down below, and have a glass of brandy-and-water.”
“I 'll stay where I am,” said Beecher, sulkily, and walked away in dudgeon from the spot.
“I think I recognize your friend's voice,” said Conway, when Beecher next joined him. “If I 'm right, it's a fellow I 've an old grudge against.”