“The man who gives the borough must take care of that; it's no affair of mine,” said Linton, carelessly. “I only supply the politics.”
“And what are they to be?”
“Cela dépend. You might as well ask me what dress I 'll wear in the changeable climate of an Irish July.”
“Then you 'll take no pledges?”
“To be sure I will; every one asked of me. I only stipulate to accompany each with a crotchet of my own, so that, like the gentleman who emptied his snuff-box over the peas, I 'll leave the dish uneatable by any but myself.”
“Well, good-bye, Tom,” said Lord Charles, laughing. “If you only be as loyal in love as you promise to be in politics, our fair friend is scarcely fortunate.” And so saying, he cantered slowly away.
“Poor fellow!” said Linton, contemptuously, “your little bit of principle haunts you like a superstition.” And with this reflection, he stepped out briskly to where the boy was standing with his horse.
“Oh, Mr. Linton, darlin', only sixpence! and I here this two hours?” said the ragged urchin, with a cunning leer, half roguery, half shame.
“And where could you have earned sixpence, you scoundrel, in that time?” cried Linton, affecting anger.
“Faix, I 'd have earned half a crown if I 'd got up on the beast and rode down to Bilton's,” said the fellow, grinning.