“Scrape, you may call it,” was the reply; “partly through my own folly, partly through the rascality of others, I am almost certain to lose a couple of thousand pounds on a steeple-chase, for which I’ve been idiot enough to enter a horse, and where to lay my hands on as many hundreds is more than I know. I shall not be able to meet my engagements, and shall be stigmatized as a blackleg and a swindler, at the very time when it is through the villainy of blacklegs and swindlers that I shall be placed in such a position!”
“Can’t your father?” began Coverdale.
“If you don’t wish to render me frantic, don’t mention my father,” was the unexpected rejoinder; he paused, then resumed—“Coverdale, I will not trust you by halves, I know you will hold my confidence sacred. My father is most kind and liberal to me, more liberal almost than he should be, for he is not a rich man, and has many calls upon him, and this year I know he has met with severe losses. I had an allowance on which I could have lived well, and as becomes my rank; but Horace D’Almayne, under pretence of showing me life, took me to a gaming-house, I acquired a taste for play, or rather I played, because I thought it the ‘correct thing’ and I am now not only without money, but actually in debt. Then came this horse business,”—here Lord Alfred gave Coverdale a succinct account of the various particulars of the affairs with which the reader has been already made acquainted. “I felt, up to this morning,” he resumed, “tolerably confident of success, relying chiefly on Tirrett’s riding, which is said to be first-rate; imagine, then, my rage and disgust when half an hour ago this was given me!”—As he spoke, he handed Coverdale the following note:—
“I am sorry to inform your lordship that circumstances, over which I have no control, oblige me to decline the honour of riding Don Pasquale for you to-day.
“I am,
“Your Lordship’s obedient servant,
“Philip Tirrett.”
“Pleasant and encouraging, certainly,” observed Coverdale, when he had finished reading the note.
“That fellow Tirrett is the greatest scoundrel unhung!” exclaimed Lord Alfred, crushing the paper in his hand with an action suggestive of his willingness to perform a similar process of annihilation upon its writer.
“By no means,” returned Harry, coolly; “he is simply a very average specimen of his class, half-jockey, half-dealer, and whole blackleg of a low stamp—there are hundreds such on the turf; however, he seems to have got you into an awful fix this time—we must try and find out what can be done. I’ll stay and see you through it at all events; it’s fortunate to-day is the day, for I could not have remained beyond; I dare say I shall be back in time to catch the eight o’clock train, and I shall then be at home by eleven. What time do you start, and how do you get down?”