“Where we 'll all be, one day or other,” growled out Grog, who could not help answering his own reflections.
“'And are you sure of where you are?'—that's what I 'd ask him, eh, Grog?—'are you sure of where you are?'”
“That would be a poser, I suspect,” said Davis, who laughed heartily; and the contagion catching Beecher, he laughed till the tears came.
“I might ask him, besides, 'Are you quite sure how long you are to remain where you are?' eh, Grog? What would he say to that?”
“The chances are, he 'd not answer at all,” said Davis, dryly.
“No, no! you mistake him, he's always ready with a reason; and then he sets out by reminding you that he's the head of the house,—a fact that a younger brother does n't need to have recalled to his memory. Oh, Grog, old fellow, if I were the Viscount,—not that I wish any ill to Lack-ington,—not that I 'd really enjoy the thing at any cost to him,—but if I were—”
“Well, let's hear. What then?” cried Davis, as he filled the other's glass to the top,—“what then?”
“Would n't I trot the coach along at a very different pace. It's not poking about Italy, dining with smoke-dried cardinals and snuffy old 'marchesas,' I 'd be; but I 'd have such a stable, old fellow, with Jem Bates to ride and Tom Ward to train them, and yourself, too, to counsel me. Would n't we give Binsleigh and Hawksworth and the rest of them a cold bath, eh?”
“That ain't the style of thing at all, Beecher,” said Grog, deprecatingly; “you ought to go in for the 'grand British nobleman dodge,'—county interests, influence with a party, and a vote in the Lords. If you were to try it, you 'd make a right good speech. It wouldn't be one of those flowery things the Irish fellows do, but a manly, straightforward, genuine English discourse.”
“Do you really think so, Grog?” asked he, eagerly.