"Why—ah—you see, Peter," he began, picking up his riding whip and staring at it, "you see your uncle was never very fond of company at any time, whereas I—"
"Whereas you could always find time to remember the lonely boy left when all his companions were gone on their holidays—left to his books and the dreary desolation of the empty schoolhouse, and echoing cloisters—"
"Pooh!" exclaimed Sir Richard, redder than ever. "Bosh!"
"Do you think I can ever forget the glorious day when you drove over in your coach and four, and carried me off in triumph, and how we raced the white-hatted fellow in the tilbury—?"
"And beat him!" added Sir Richard.
"Took off his near wheel on the turn," said I.
"The fool's own fault," said Sir Richard.
"And left him in the ditch, cursing us!" said I.
"Egad, yes, Peter! Oh, but those were fine horses and though I say it, no better team in the south country. You'll remember the 'off wheeler' broke his leg shortly after and had to be shot, poor devil."
"And later, at Oxford," I began.