Let us take a glance at Mr. Maurice Scanlan, as, with an extra box-coat ingeniously wrapped around his lower man, he discoursed pleasantly to his companion while he “tooled” along towards Cro' Martin. Not a word of politics, not a syllable on the subject of party, escaped him as he talked. His conversation was entirely of sporting matters: the odds against Leander, the last bettings on “Firebrand,” whether Spicy Bill was really in bad training, as the knowing ones said, and if the course wouldn't “puzzle the young ones” if the wet weather were to continue.
Massingbred was sufficiently well versed in these classic themes to be an amusing and even instructive companion, and communicated many a sly piece of intelligence that would have been deemed priceless in “Bell's Life;” and Scanlan quickly conceived a high estimate for one who had graduated at Newmarket, and taken honors at Goodwood.
“After the kind of life you 've led in England, I wonder how you endure this country at all,” said Maurice, with real sincerity of voice and manner.
“I like it,” said Jack; “the whole thing is new to me, and vastly amusing. I don't mean to say I 'd willingly pass a lifetime in this fashion, but for a few weeks—”
“Just so; to give you a better relish for the real thing when you go back again,” said Maurice.
“What a neat stepper that leader is!” said Jack, to change the topic from himself and his own affairs. “She's a well-bred one; that's clear.”
“Nearly full-bred; the least bit of cocktail in the world. She's out of Crescent, that ran a very good third for the Oaks.”
“A strong horse, and a very honest one,” said Jack.
“Well, I bought that little mare from young Mr. Martin—the Captain—when he was ordered out to India; I put her in training, and ran her at the Curragh in three weeks, and won, too, the St. Lawrence Handicap.”
“Is Captain Martin a sporting character?” asked Jack, carelessly.