“Meek heard that you had gone over to Downing Street to ask for the Irish Secretaryship,” said Jennings.
“I said you had been to have a talk with Scott about 'Regulator;' was I far off the mark?”
“Mrs. White suggested an uncle's death,” said Frobisher; “but uncles don't die nowadays.”
“Did you buy the colt?—Have you backed 'Runjeet Singh?'—Are you to have the agency?—How goes on the borough canvass?” and twenty similar queries now poured in on him.
“Well, I see,” cried he, laughing, “I shall sadly disappoint all the calculations founded on my shrewdness and dexterity, for the whole object of my journey was to secure a wardrobe for our fancy ball, which I suddenly heard of as being at Limerick; and so, not trusting the mission to another, I started off myself, and here I am, with materials for more Turks, Monks, Sailors, Watchmen, Greeks, Jugglers, and Tyrolese, than ever travelled in anything save a caravan with one horse.”
“Are your theatrical intentions all abandoned?” cried Jennings.
“I trust not,” said Linton; “but I heard that Miss Meek had decided on the ball to come off first.”
“Hip! hip! hip!” was moaned out, in very lachrymose tone, from a sofa where the boy hussar, very sick and very tipsy, lay stretched on his back.
“Who is that yonder?” asked Linton.
“A young fellow of ours,” said Jennings, indolently.