“Where did he dig him up, Claude?” whispered he, after a second.
“In India, I fancy; or at the Cape.”
“That fellow has something to do with the hell in St. James's Street; I 'll swear I know his face.”
“I 've been telling Merl that he 's in rare luck to find such a turn-out as that in the market; that is, if you still are disposed to sell.”
“Oh, yes, I'll sell it; give him the tiger, boots, cockade, and all,—everything except that Skye terrier. You shall have the whole, sir, for two thousand pounds; or, if you prefer it—”
A certain warning look from Lord Claude suddenly arrested his words, and he added, after a moment,—“But I 'd rather sell it off, and think no more of it.”
“Try the nags; Sir Spencer, I'm sure, will have no objection,” said Martin. But the baronet's face looked anything but concurrence with the proposal.
“Take them a turn round the Bois de Boulogne, Merl,” said Martin, laughing at his friend's distress.