The laughter at this toast was increased by Meek's holding out his glass to be filled as he asked, “Of course,—whose health is it?”
“One of Frobisher's trainers,” said Upton, readily.
“No, it's no such thing,” hiccoughed the hussar. “I was proposing a bumper to the lightest snaffle hand from this to Doncaster—the best judge of a line of country in the kingdom—”
“That's me,” said a jolly voice, and at the same instant the door was flung wide, and Tom Linton, splashed from the road, and travel-stained, entered.
“I must say, gentlemen, you are no churls of your wit and pleasantry, for, as I came up the stairs, I could hear every word you were saying.”
“Oh dear, how dreadful! and we were talking of you too,” said Meek, with a piteous air that made every one laugh.
A thousand questions as to where he had been, whom with, and what for?—all burst upon Linton, who only escaped importunity by declaring that he was half dead with hunger, and would answer nothing till he had eaten.
“So,” said he, at length, after having devoted twenty minutes to a grouse-pie of most cunning architecture, “you never guessed where I had been?”
“Oh! we had guesses enough, if that served any purpose.”
“I thought it was a bolt, Tom,” said Upton; “but as she appeared at breakfast, as usual, I saw my mistake.”