"A leetle—leggy? p'r'aps, Barnabas, and yet—ha!"
'His daddles he used with such skill and dexterity,
Winning each mill, sir, and blacking each eye—'
"His cannons'll never trouble him, Barnabas, come rough or smooth, and you didn't say a word too much in your letter. Man Jack—you behold a 'oss as is a 'oss—though, mark you, John, a leetle bit roundish in the barrel and fullish in the shoulder—still, a animal, John, as I'm burning to cock a leg over."
"Why, then, Natty Bell, so you shall," said Barnabas, and forthwith down he swung himself and, being a little careless, wracked his injured shoulder and flinched a little, which the slow-spoken, quick-eyed John was swift to notice and, almost diffidently drew his son's arm through his own. But, Natty Bell, joyful of eye, was already in the saddle; whereat "The Terror," resenting the change, immediately began to dance and to sidle, with, much rearing up in front and lashing out behind, until, finding this all quite unavailing, he set off at a stretching gallop with Natty Bell sitting him like a centaur.
"And now, Barnabas," said John slowly, "'ow might your shoulder be, now?"
"Nearly well, father."
"Good," nodded John, "very good! I thought as you was going to—die, Barnabas, lad. They all did—even the Duchess and Lady—the—the doctors, Barnabas."
"Were you going to say—Lady Cleone, father?"
"Why," answered John, more ponderously than ever, "I won't go for to deny it, Barnabas, never 'aving been a liar—on principle as you know, and—and—there y'are, my lad."
"Have you ever—seen her, then?"