“Fail, eh? It strikes me that you are not half awake yet, or else your eyesight is getting out of condition. Six times running, except twice, when the wind or something got in the way, did I knock that blessed stone off, while I was trying to wake you. Epsom's coming round soon, don't you see, so I'm just getting my hand in for a slap at the snuff-boxes. But jump into your togs as fast as you can, and come out, for I've got such a lark to tell you.”
A few minutes sufficed to enable me to follow Lawless's recommendation, and long before he had attained the proficiency he desired in his “snuff-box practice,” I had joined him.
“There!” he exclaimed, as he made a most spiteful shot at the stone, “that's safe to do the business. By Jove, it has done it too, and no mistake,” he continued, as the stick, glancing against the branch of a tree, turned aside, and ruining a very promising bed of hyacinths, finally alighted on a bell-glass placed over some pet flower of Fanny's, both of which it utterly destroyed.
“Pleasant that, eh?—ah, well, we must lay it to the cats—though if the cats in this part of the country are not unusually robust and vicious, there's not a chance of our being believed.”
“Never mind,” remarked I, “better luck next time. But now that you have succeeded in dragging me out of bed, what is it that you want with me?”
“Want with you, eh?” returned Lawless, mimicking the half-drowsy, half-cross tone in which I had spoken; “you're a nice young man to talk to, I don't think. Never be grumpy, man, when I've got the most glorious bit of fun in the world to tell you, too. I had my adventures yesterday as well as you. Who do you think called upon me after you set out? You'll never guess, so I may as well tell you at once; it was—but you shall hear how it happened. I was just pulling my boots on to try a young bay thoroughbred, that Reynolds thinks might make a steeple-chaser—he's got some rare bones about him, I must say. Well, I was just in the very act of pulling on my boots, when Shrimp makes his appearance, and squeaking out, 'Here's a gent, as vonts to see you, sir, partic'lar,' ushers in no less a personage than Lucy Markham's devoted admirer, the drysalter.”
“What! the gentleman whose business we settled so nicely the day before yesterday? Freddy Coleman's dreaded rival?”
“Eh? yes, the very identical, and an uncommon good little follow he is too, as men go, I can tell you. Well, you may suppose I was puzzled enough to find out what he could want with me, and was casting about for something to say to him, when he makes a sort of a bow, and begins:—
“'The Honourable George Lawless, I believe?'
“'The same, sir, at your service,' replies I, giving a stamp with my foot to get my boot on.