“Why, of course he was, auntie,” cried Syd. “I saw the old humbug twice.”
“What!” half shrieked Lady Lisle, “is there no one in whom I can trust?”
“Yes, my lady,” cried the tout, harshly. “You trust to me, and buy that little white dawg—no, I’ll make yer a present of it, if you’ll cry quits about me being here. No, you don’t, Marky; I’m going to speak. I’m a-going to give her ladyship the right tip, and my tips are the real square right ’uns.”
There was a bit of a struggle, which was checked by Sir Hilton, who, as if inspired by his thoughts, interfered.
“Yes, my dear,” he said; “hear what the man says.”
“Right you are, Sir Rilton. You always was a gent as I respected. Look here, my lady, don’t you be so hard on a gent as likes to go in for a bit of the real true old English sport. I know, my lady—yes, I’ve jest done, and then I’ll put on my boots. Pricked my foot, I did, with that there spiky plahnt. Here, don’t you think anything o’ that drop o’ fizz he had. Sir Rilton didn’t have enough to make him tight.”
“No—on my soul I didn’t, Laura,” cried Sir Hilton. “The man’s right.”
“Right I am, Sir Rilton,” cried the tout. “No, you don’t, my white-chokered herb!” he shouted, making a dash at Trimmer, who was quietly making for the door. “Got him! You, Mark Willows, you collar old Sam Simpkins. He’s t’other customer in that little game.”
“Here, what do you mean, sir?” said Sir Hilton, sternly.
“Mean, Sir Rilton—mean, Lady Lisle, and my Lady Tilborough—and Heaven bless my lady and the noble man of your chice—why, I mean this, as I see with these here eyes, going about and in and out selling my c’rect cards, all the starters, anceterer—No, you don’t; down you goes on your marrow-bones and makes confession to the lot.”