But there was no mistake about the man’s profession. He was hall-marked “tramp” by his blear eyes and horribly reddened, bulbous nose, and racing-tout by the packet of race-cards peering out of his breast-pocket. But evidently he was a man of much invention, inasmuch as from a desire to do a little trading on his way from racecourse to racecourse, or for an excuse to find his way to houses where he might pick up unconsidered trifles, cadging, filching, and the like, he carried in one hand a fat, white mongrel puppy, with a bit of blue ribbon tied about its neck. As a dog, it was about as bad a specimen as could be met with in a day’s march; but it had one advantage over its owner—it was scrupulously clean.
The squire of the Denes was not within the scope of the tramp’s view, as he loafed up with his blear eyes twinkling; and for the moment the shape of the room hid Lady Lisle, till the big Persian cat, the minute before apparently fast asleep, curled up on an ottoman upon which the sun shone warmly, suddenly smelt dog, and sprang to all fours, arching its back, bottle-brushing its tail, and baring its white teeth, as it began to swear loudly.
“Oh, Khan, Khan, what is the matter?” cried Lady Lisle, taking a step or two towards the cat, and then stopping short with “Oh, Hilton, my love, send this dreadful man away!”
“Buy a lovely little dawg, my lady,” cried the tramp, now close up to the window, and smiling, whining, and leering in. “Puss, puss, puss! Look at ’em! They’ll make friends in a minute.”
He reached in a hand and set the puppy down on the Turkey carpet, when the idiotic-looking little object, after the manner of its kind, began slowly to blunder towards the lordly Persian yclept Khan, to the imminent risk of having its eyes scratched out.
“Look at the pretty creetur, my lady,” whined the man. “Two guineas is the price, but seeing its you, my lady, and a good home for the little beauty, say one pun, and he’s yours.”
“Take your dirty whelp up and be off, you scoundrel!” cried Sir Hilton, in a passion, and deftly placing the toe of his boot under the puppy he lifted it and sent it flying through the window, to be fielded cleverly and without pain by its owner.
“What, my noble Capting! What, my noble barrowknight, you here? You are a sight for sore eyes. You ain’t forgot Dandy Dinny?”
“Forgotten you? No, you scoundrel!”
“Just your old self again, Sir Rilton. Why, bless me! this is like old times. Here, c’rect card, Sir Rilton; all the names colours, jocks, and starters. Take a dozen, your lordship; you’ll want ’em for your lady-friends on the course.”