Before the speaker had arrived at the conclusion of his advice gratis, Coverdale had removed the hand which impeded his vision, and turning round, exclaimed—
“Why, it’s Tom Rattleworth, by all that’s extraordinary—I thought you were in Canada, with your regiment, man!”
“So I was till the gout carried off the governor, and left me a miserable orphan with £15,000 a-year in my pocket. When that lamentable event occurred I thought I was, for the first time in my life, worth taking care of, so determined to cut the red cloth and pipe-clay business, and come home and live virtuously ever after.”
“You seem to have recovered your spirits pretty well, if one may judge by present appearances,” returned Coverdale, half-amused, half-disgusted at his quondam friend’s sentiments—“at all events you’ve not grown thin upon it.”
“No! but that’s the very fact which proves how deeply I feel my forlorn condition; it’s old Falstaff—is it not—observes how grief swells a man? I don’t ride a pound under twelve stone,” was the rejoinder. “By the way,” continued Rattleworth, “that reminds me—it’s deucedly lucky I met you; you’re the very man that can tell me all about it—Broomfield is anxious to give up the fox-hounds; he is growing old and lazy, and he wants me to take ’em.”
“My dear fellow, I’m delighted to hear it,” exclaimed Harry, eagerly; “old Broomfield is completely past his work, and of all the men I know you’re the fittest to succeed him—you will do the thing as it ought to be done. I should have undertaken them myself, if I had not become a Benedict: Broomfield tried to persuade me.”
“Well now look here,” resumed Rattleworth, meditatively; “I’ve promised to meet Broomfield to-morrow, and take his horses and everything at a valuation. Now there is not a man in the county whose opinion about a horse I’d sooner have than yours; can you spare time to go with me? I shall really consider it a personal favour if you will do so.”
“Of course I will,” returned Harry; for if he had a weak point on which he was accessible to flattery, it was concerning his knowledge of horse-flesh; “there can be nothing I should like better, in fact—what time do you go?”
“I was to lunch with him at one,” was the reply; “and we were to look at his stud afterwards.”
“Then I’ll meet you at the cross roads by Hanger Wood, at half-past twelve,” returned Harry; and so, with a hearty shake of the hand, the friends parted.