"His gout?"
"Precisely! Every twinge he has—up goes my credit. I'm his only heir, y'know, and he's seventy-one. At present he's as sound as a bell, —actually rode to hounds last week, b'gad! Consequently my credit's—nowhere. Jolly old boy, though—deuced fond of him—ha! there's Haynes! Over yonder! Fellow driving the phaeton with the black-a-moor in the rumble."
"You mean the man in the bright green coat?"
"Yes. Call him 'Pea-green Haynes'—one of your second-rate, ultra dandies. Twig his vasty whiskers, will you! Takes his fellow hours to curl 'em. And then his cravat, b'gad!"
"How does he turn his head?" inquired Barnabas.
"Never does,—can't! I lost a devilish lot to him at hazard a few years ago—crippled me, y' know. But talking of my uncle—devilish fond of him—always was."
"But mark you, Beverley, a man has no right—no business to go on living after he's seventy, at least, it shows deuced bad taste, I think—so thoughtless, y'know. Hallo! why there's Ball Hughes—driving the chocolate-colored coach, and got up like a regular jarvey. Devilish rich, y'know—call him 'The Golden Ball'—deuce of a fellow! Pitch and toss, or whist at five pound points, damme! Won small fortune from Petersham at battledore and shuttlecock,—played all night too."
"And have you lost to him also?"
"Of course?"
"Do you ever win?"