“Wrong again,” said Linton, affecting a laugh. “Everton is in a scrape, and his wife wants me to get him out of the way—”
“Nonsense, man, I saw the carriage; there is no need of mystifying here. Besides, it's no affair of mine—I'm sure I wish it were! But come, what are the odds on Hitchley's colt—are seven to two taken?”
“Don't bet,” said Linton, knowingly; “there is something 'wrong' in that stable, and I have n't found out the secret.”
“What a deep fellow you are, Tom.”
“Nothing of the kind, Charley. If I were, you 'd never have discovered it. Your only deep fellow is he that the world deems shallow—your light-hearted, rattling knave, whose imputed thoughtlessness covers every breach of faith, and makes his veriest schemes seem purely accident. But, once get the repute of being a clever or a smart fellow, and success is tenfold more difficult. The world, then, only plays with you as one does with a sharper, betting small stakes, and keeping a steady eye on the cards. Your own sleepy eye, Charley, your languid, careless look, are a better provision than most men give their younger children.”
Lord Charles lifted his long eyelashes lazily, and, for a second, something like a sparkle lit up his cold, dark eye, but it was gone in a moment, and his habitually lethargic expression once more returned. “You heard that we were nearly 'out,' I suppose?” said he, after a pause.
“Yes. This is the second time that I bought Downie Meek's carriage-horses on the rumor of a change of administration.”
“And sold them back again at double the price, when he found that the ministry were safe!”
“To be sure; was n't it a 'good hedge' for him to be Secretary for Ireland at the cost of a hundred or so?”
“You 'll get the name of spreading the false intelligence, Tom, if you always profit so much by it.”