"Stay a moment, Dick," says Bentley, as I rose, "what of our Pen,—she hasn't asked you yet how Jack hurt his foot, has she?"
"Not a word."
"Ha!" says Bentley, with a ponderous nod, "which goes to prove she doth but think the more, and we must keep the truth from her at all hazards, Dick—she'll know soon enough, poor, dear lass. Now, should she ask us—as ask us she will, 'twere best to have something to tell her—let's say, he slipped somewhere!"
"Aye," I nodded, "we'll tell her he twisted his ankle coming down the step at 'The Chequers'—would to God he had!" So saying, we clapped on our hats and sallied out together arm in arm. Jack and I are near neighbours, so that a walk of some fifteen minutes brought us to the Manor, and proceeding at once to the library, we found him with his leg upon a cushion and a bottle of Oporto at his elbow—a-cursing most lustily.
"Well, Jack," says Bentley, as he paused for breath, "and how is the leg?"
"Leg!" roars Jack, "leg, sir—look at it—useless as a log—as a cursed log of wood, sir—snapped a tendon—so Purdy says, but Purdy's a damned pessimistic fellow—the devil anoint all doctors, say I!"
"And pray, what might be the meaning of this note of yours?" and I held it out towards him.
"Meaning," cries Jack, "can't you read—don't I tell you? The insufferable insolence of the fellow."
"Faith!" says I, "if it's Raikes you mean, anything is believable of him—"
"Raikes!" roars Jack, louder than ever, "fiddle-de-dee, sir! who mentioned that rascal—you got my note?"