"The minx!" cried Jack, "the jade!" And with the word he snatched off his wig and hurled it into a corner.
"Jack," says I, "what's to be done?"
"Done?" he roared, "I'll pack her off to her Aunt Sophia to-morrow!"
"Aye," says Bentley, "but—will she go?"
"Bentley," says Jack, "I'll thank you to reach me my wig!"
Chapter Four
Of how We fell in with a Highwayman at
the Cross Roads
Myself and Bentley were returning from another dog-fight. This time my dog had lost (which was but natural, seeing its very unfit condition, though to be sure it looked well enough at a glance). Alas! the sport is not what it was in my young days, when rogues can so put off a sick dog upon the unsuspecting. Methinks 'tis becoming a very brutal, degrading practice—have determined to have done with dog-fighting once and for all. Bentley was in a high good humour (as was but to be expected, seeing he had won nigh upon two hundred guineas of me), but then, as I have said, Bentley never wins but he must needs show it.
"By the way," said he, breaking off in the middle of the air he was humming, "did you see him at the fight?"
"Him?" says I.