“In what way, pray?” asked she, quietly.
“Why, in the way of trade, of course,” said he, laughing. “For the fine-lady part of the matter he 'd not care for it,—that never was his line of country,—but for the young swells that thought themselves sporting characters, for the soft young gents that fancied they could play, Grog was always ready. I ask your pardon for the familiar nickname, but we 've known each other about thirty years. He always called me Ginger. Haven't you heard him speak of old Ginger?”
“Never, sir.”
“Strange that; but perhaps he did not speak of his pals to you?”
“No, never.”
“That was so like him. I never saw his equal to hunt over two different kinds of country. He could get on the top of a bus and go down to St. John's Wood, or to Putney, after a whole night at Crawley's, and with an old shooting-jacket and Jim-crow on him, and a garden-rake in his hand, you 'd never suspect he was the fellow who had cleared out the company and carried off every shilling at billiards and blind-hookey. Poor old Kit, how fond I am of him!”
A stare, whose meaning Spicer could not fathom, was the only reply to the speech.
“And he was so fond of me! I was the only one of them all he could trust. He liked Beech—I mean his Lordship there; he was always attached to him, but whenever it was really a touch-and-go thing, a nice operation, then he'd say, 'Where's Ginger? give me Ginger!' The adventures we've had together would make a book; and do you know that more than once I thought of writing them, or getting a fellow to write them, for it's all the same. I'd have called it 'Grog and Ginger.' Wouldn't that take?”
She made no reply; her face was, perhaps, a thought paler, but unchanged in expression.
“And then the scenes we've gone through!—dangerous enough some of them; he rather liked that, and I own it never was my taste.”