"Horses!" cried the Captain, almost himself again, "ha, b'gad—there's action for you—and blood too! I was a year matching 'em. Cost me eight hundred guineas—and cheap at the money—but—"
"Well?"
"After all, Beverley, they—aren't mine, you see."
"Not yours?"
"No. They're—his!"
"You mean—Gaunt's?"
The Captain nodded gloomily.
"Yes," said he, "my horses are his, my curricle's his, my clothes are his—everything's his. So am I, b'gad! Oh, you needn't look so infernal incredulous—fact, I assure you. And, when you come to think of it—it's all cursed humorous, isn't it?" and here the Captain contrived to laugh, though it rang very hollow, to be sure.
"You owe—a great deal then?" said Barnabas.
"Owe?" said the Captain, turning to look at him, "I'm in up to my neck, and getting deeper. Owe! B'gad, Beverley—I believe you!" But now, at sight of gravefaced Barnabas, he laughed again, and this time it sounded less ghoul-like. "Debt is a habit," he continued sententiously, "that grows on one most damnably, and creditors are the most annoying people in the world—so confoundedly unreasonable! Of course I pay 'em—now and then—deserving cases, y' know. Fellow called on me t' other day,—seemed to know his face. 'Who are you?' says I. 'I'm the man who makes your whips, sir,' says he. 'And devilish good whips too!' says I, 'how much do I owe you?' 'Fifteen pounds, sir,' says he, 'I wouldn't bother you only'—well, it seemed his wife was sick—fellow actually blubbered! So of course I rang for my rascal Danby, Danby's my valet, y' know. 'Have you any money, Danby?' says I. 'No sir,' says he; queer thing, but Danby never has, although I pay him regularly—devilish improvident fellow, Danby! So I went out and unearthed Jerningham—and paid the fellow on the spot—only right, y' know."